#Full Back Ribs Rack

[rabbitcruiser]

National Onion Day

Today, farmers in the United States are collecting millions of onions. They will be heading for store shelves to provide families with the fresh, nutritional, tasty power to improve meals and boost the body’s immunity. Onions have numerous advantages, such as enhancing meals with a variety of flavors. According to recent research, consuming onions also helps the body fight colorectal cancer and breast cancer, as well as heart disease and diabetes.

National Onion Day commemorates the incorporation of the National Onion Association in 1913. The organization was created to protect the interests of America’s onion growers, and onions remain their business to this day. Today, the group represents over 500 onion producers, shippers, packers, and suppliers across the country.

History of National Onion Day

In June 2022, the National Onion Association established National Onion Day to commemorate the organization’s 53rd anniversary. They officially incorporated on June 27, 1913, in Ohio, and represent almost 500 onion farmers, shippers, packers, and allied members across the U.S.

Onions are one of the world’s oldest cultivated vegetables, having originated in Central Asia and spread around the world. Some researchers believe the onion has been cultivated for at least 5,000 years. Onions were possibly eaten for thousands of years and cultivated all over the world at the same time, since they grew wild in different locations.

We rely on the onion to improve the flavor of our savory meals, whether we use a sweet, white, red, or ever-popular yellow onion. They complement meats and salads, making the versatile onion a culinary powerhouse. It’s the needed seasoning alongside our salt and pepper, whether added to eggs or pickled. While the onion is low in calories, it is also high in vitamin C and antioxidants, and can increase your dietary fiber and vitamin B6 intake. Unlike many other low-calorie ingredients, onions provide a high nutritional content without compromising flavor. And it makes no difference what you do to it; pickled or raw, caramelized, sauteed, or pureed — the onion adds a lot of flavor to a dish. With so many types to choose from, onions present numerous opportunities to reap the benefits.

National Onion Day timeline

3500 B.C. The Onion is First Traced in Egypt

The history of the onion can be traced back to this period, with a Sumerian document describing someone being in awe of the city governor’s onion garden.

1500 B.C. Ancient Egypt Worships Onions

To those who bury onions alongside their pharaohs, onions are a sign of eternity.

1913 National Onion Association Is Founded

On June 2, the National Onion Association is formally incorporated in Ohio.

2019 National Onion Day is First Celebrated

The National Onion Association establishes National Onion Day on June 27, to honor onion producers.

National Onion Day FAQs

Is an onion a vegetable or a fruit?

The vegetables are classified based on the edible part of the plant: leaves (like lettuce), roots (like carrot), bulbs (such as onions), and many others. Alternatively, fruits such as tomatoes and seeds such as peas are commonly referred to as vegetables.

Which country is the largest onion exporter?

According to FY18 data, China appears to be the top onion producer, but the Netherlands is the largest onion exporter.

Do onions aid in the treatment of infections?

Onions were worshiped for their medicinal powers by various civilizations. They have anti-inflammatory properties, relieve joint pain, treat ear infections, work as an antibiotic, and are an excellent expectorant for loosening up thick phlegm.

National Onion Day Activities

Add fresh onion to your favorite recipe

Learn how to grow onions in your backyard

Share the celebration on social media

For a flavor boost, be sure to add some onion in there. No matter how you slice it, onion pulls together some of the greatest flavors! Tell us how you like to cook your onions!

Gardening is fun! Furthermore, if you can cultivate some veggies like onions in your backyard, you can reduce the cost of your monthly groceries by harvesting them yourself.

Be sure to spread the word about National Onion Day by using the hashtag #NationalOnionDay on social media. Also, don’t forget to brag about your onion recipe or how you harvested your own onions.

5 Interesting Facts About Onion

They’ve been around for thousands of years

Sulfuric acid

Onions were worshiped by Ancient Egyptians

The biggest onion ever

The Big Onion

Onions have been present for thousands of years and, around 3,500 B.C, onions were harvested for the first time.

The reason you become teary-eyed when cutting onions is because of the sulfuric acid they contain.

They claimed that the spherical shape and concentric circles represented eternity — onions were used to cover the tombs of their monarchs and were important in ritual burials.

According to ‘The Guinness Book of World Records’, the biggest onion ever was cultivated by Peter Glazebrook, a British farmer, who grew a massive onion in 2011 that weighed just under 18 pounds.

Before it was known as the Big Apple, New York was known as the Big Onion, because it was a place where you could peel layer after layer without touching the center, kind of like an onion.

Why We Love National Onion Day

It encourages cultivation

It promotes culinary creativity

It boosts the immune system

Onions are an important, and healthy part of our diet. Why not grow and cultivate your own in your backyard?

Who would have thought onions, known for making us cry, could be so sweet and delectable with some creativity? These days, almost all culinary innovations use onion for a unique flavor.

Onions are rich in prebiotics. This helps to increase friendly bacteria in your guy, which helps to build immunity against viruses.

Source

[abbotjack]

Godless Things

content/warnings: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, rough sex with emotional intimacy, size kink, creampie, emotionally repressed male character, canon-typical violence references, possessiveness, praise kink. no one asked for this but yolo

summary : After a violent job leaves Pope simmering in guilt and emotional chaos, you show up uninvited—knowing full well what he is, and wanting him anyway.

word count : 1,429

You shouldn’t be in his house tonight.

Not after what went down.

But that’s the thing about Pope Cody—you never show up when things are good. You come when it’s bad. You come when he’s bleeding.

And tonight, he is.

Not in the literal sense—he’s showered, scrubbed the blood off his hands. But you can feel it radiating off him the moment he opens the door, tension coiled tight behind those tired eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says flatly.

You step inside anyway. Let the door fall shut behind you.

“I know,” you answer. “But I am.”

He stares at you for a long time, unmoving. Then exhales through his nose and walks back toward the kitchen without another word. That’s your invitation.

You follow.

The house is too quiet. The way all Cody houses get when something’s gone wrong and no one wants to talk about it. There’s a bottle on the table—something cheap, half-drunk, and untouched for at least an hour. He isn’t drinking anymore. Not really. He just keeps the bottle there. Like a warning to himself.

You watch him lean back against the counter. He crosses his arms. His eyes drop to your throat, then your hips, then back up. Calculated. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to react.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

His voice is low. Tired. Hoarse from shouting, maybe. You don’t ask what happened out there tonight. You don’t need to.

You walk to him slowly, unzipping your jacket.

“You.”

His breath stutters—barely. But you catch it.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He laughs, dry and bitter. “You have no idea what kind of man I am.”

“I know exactly what kind of man you are.” You reach for him, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “And I want you anyway.”

Something breaks behind his eyes.

He grabs you.

Not gentle. Not cruel. Just urgent. Like he’s been starving for weeks and you’re the first real thing he’s touched in days.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. His mouth doesn’t ask. It takes—a bruising kiss that tastes like guilt and need and everything he’ll never say out loud.

“You should be afraid of me,” he growls against your mouth.

“I’m not.”

“You should be,” he says again, and there’s something in his voice this time. Not anger. Not even warning. Begging. Like he wants you to run so he won’t have to do this.

But he’s already pulling your shirt over your head.

You tug his hoodie off, feel the heat of his body beneath it—lean, scarred, hard with muscle earned from years of running, fighting, lifting, breaking. This is a man who’s never known softness that didn’t turn on him. Who flinches when you’re gentle and falls apart when you’re not.

You strip for him. Slowly. Deliberately. His jaw tightens the more skin you reveal, like he can’t decide whether to fall to his knees or shove you against the wall and fuck you until the pain makes sense.

He steps closer.

And when he touches you—really touches you—it’s with both hands. One palm across your ribs, the other sliding down your spine, warm and firm and reverent in the most godless way.

“Go to the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Now.”

Your breath catches, but you obey. The bedroom is quiet. Sheets still rumpled from nights he pretended to sleep. He follows you in slowly, watching you with that sharp, analytical look he always wears before a job.

Because this is a job now.

Making you his. Marking you in a way that’ll outlast whatever sins he racks up next.

He strips in the doorway—shirt, jeans, boxers. You look at him and it hits you how ruined he is. Not just his body—though the scars there tell their own story—but the way he stands. Ready for violence. Ready for rejection.

But you don’t flinch. You open your legs.

And fuck, the noise he makes.

He’s on you in seconds. His cock is heavy and hot against your thigh as he shifts over you. You’ve never seen him like this—undone but still trying to hold it in. His whole body is tight with restraint, the kind that aches more than it satisfies.

He lines himself up and drags the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, slow, almost reverent—just once. Testing. Tasting. Marking you with it.

“Fucking soaked,” he mutters. “You want this?”

You nod, breath catching. “Yes.”

He doesn’t push in right away.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans in, voice low against your ear.

“You want me to fuck you, knowing what I did tonight? Knowing I’ll probably do worse tomorrow?”

You turn your face to his, eyes wide open. “I want you.”

And that’s it. That’s the edge.

He grabs the back of your thigh, shoves it up toward your chest, and thrusts in with a single, brutal motion.

You scream—half pleasure, half shock. The stretch is too much, nearly splitting, and you feel the air leave your lungs as he bottoms out inside you. Every inch of him fills you, thick and heavy and real in a way that drowns out everything else.

“Oh my God—”

“Don’t say that,” he growls, teeth gritted. “Say my name.”

You cling to him, barely able to breathe. “Andrew—fuck—Andrew—”

He groans like it hurts. Like hearing his real name in your mouth is worse than anything that happened out on the job. He starts to move—deep, punishing strokes, grinding down with each one like he wants to live in your body, like this is the only time he ever lets himself feel good.

You can’t even think. You’re gasping, grabbing at him, nails raking down his back, legs trembling with every thrust.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Taking me so fucking good—like you were made for it.”

“Harder,” you beg, eyes glazed, hips already chasing his. “Please—don’t hold back—”

He loses it.

He lifts your hips, changes the angle, and fucks into you with a brutal rhythm, hard enough that the headboard thuds the wall. Sweat drips from his temple onto your chest. His hands grip your thighs like he’s bracing himself from falling off the edge entirely.

“Fuck,” he pants, staring down at where he disappears into you. “Look at that. Look at you taking all of me.”

You’re shaking now. Drenched. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and frantic, but all you hear is him. His breathing. His grunts. His voice—low, unsteady, reverent like prayer.

He slides a hand between you, rubs slow circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb, and your back arches.

“Andrew—I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—”

“Come on,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Come for me. I want to feel it. I want you to fucking lose it around me.”

And you do.

It slams into you like fire. Your thighs clamp around him, your vision whites out, and you scream his name, loud and raw and real. Your pussy flutters around him, dragging a deep, guttural moan from his chest as he fucks you through it, not stopping, not slowing.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re still coming when he pulls out just far enough to slam back in again, harder, deeper, then stills. His whole body stiffens.

He groans into your neck—something primal, almost broken—and you feel him spill inside you, thick and hot, as his hips jerk with each wave. His hands are on either side of your face now, holding you like he might disappear if he lets go.

Neither of you move. Not for a long time.

He stays inside you. Head on your chest. Hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself to shore.

You run a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

He whispers, barely audible:

“You make me feel clean.”

You press your lips to his temple. “You are.”

“You shouldn’t let me do this to you.”

You hold his face in both hands. “Then why do you treat me like I’m the only thing that’s real?”

He stares down at you like he’s trying to memorize your answer. Then, without a word, he lays back down—still inside you, still holding you—and closes his eyes.

Like this is the only time he ever sleeps.

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part five

author's note: took me long enough but i’m backkk! got down with a flu + writers block but now i’m better than ever, lmk what you think & i hope you guys enjoy this one. :’)

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. no smut, just megan being scared and reader trying their best. kind of a filler chapter but in the best intention possible. also, meet sophia!

word count: 4,2k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, sophia laforteza.

megan’s spotify playlist!

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you tell yourself you’re not going to text her.

and you say it out loud this time, a quiet promise to your ceiling fan, to the wrinkles in your sheets, to the ghost of her hand that still lingers somewhere near your ribs. you won’t do it. not again.

but, oh well. you open your phone anyway.

it’s muscle memory at this point: swipe, tap, check. still no new message. nothing since the one she sent at 2:17am.

megan: can’t sleep.

megan: thinking about the way you said my name.

you had read it twice. then again. then again until the words felt like they weren’t in english anymore. you didn’t know how to respond. or if she even wanted you to.

you think about replying now. type something. delete it. type again. delete.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

and leave it there.

it was wednesday now; three days since the last time you’ve seen her. but honestly, at this point, it kinda felt like three years. you couldn’t even focus on your uni work without thinking about her voice or her eyes, and the way she purposefully seemed to take hours to text you back was driving you insane. you needed to take a breather before going to class, in which you already knew you would doze off the entire lecture because you would much rather be around her instead.

so, you dress slowly. batman & robin tee, jacket, sneakers that squeak when you walk too fast. you grab your bag and ignore the pile of laundry in the corner, the coffee mug on your nightstand still full of yesterday’s tea. before leaving, you decided to grab something to eat on the way, already listening manon’s voice in your head about how you always forget to eat while studying and how your blood pressure is shit. so you decide to steal one of her granola bars. which, of course, had a heart-shaped post-it on it.

“these are technically for me, but i know your sad little raccoon hands will find them.

fine. take one.

ONE.

(ily though. please hydrate.)

- manz”

you laughed slightly and took one bar. this was your guys’ thing; you both knew that you could always talk to each other over text messages, but ever since you moved in together, post-its were the main mean of communication between you two. there were some things that could only be said on a paper, you thought. and you cherished that a lot.

you’ve got class in less than an hour, but your brain isn’t ready for structure. it feels like soup. or static.

you take the long way. the sun hasn’t fully committed to the sky yet and everything is washed in that early kind of light; soft and blue, like it doesn’t want to wake you up too quickly. birds chirp like they don’t know what day it is.

you pass three dogs, one crying baby, a couple making out against a bike rack. the world is still moving. it always is.

and then you think about her again.

the way she laughed back at her place last weekend. her hand pressed to your chest like she was checking for signs of life. the way she looked at you; half-there, half-running.

you stop by the café before class. it’s not your usual morning haunt, but you can’t sit still. you need something warm to hold.

you open the door. the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso. the low hum of other people’s lives. this place always feels like a sigh.

you look up to the counter. you’ve seen her before —the barista with the glossy lips and flower name tag. sophia.

you’ve seen her smile at other people. never you. not because she’s mean. just because you’ve never given her a reason to.

you stand in line, staring at the drinks menu like it might give you a sign.

when it’s your turn, you step forward too fast, nearly bump into the display case. she glances up and smiles like she doesn’t notice your awkwardness. like she’s known you all along.

— hey. you’re usually here on fridays, right?

you blink. startled that she noticed. your mouth is slower than your brain.

— yeah, uh… i guess i just needed caffeine sooner this week.

she smiles, warm and easy.

— well, don’t we all? — she laughs. not mockingly. not like she’s uncomfortable. just warm. you look up at the menu like it might offer guidance. she tilts her head. — want me to surprise you?

— what would you recommend?

— hmm… maybe a dirty chai with oat milk and a side of emotional clarity.

you almost laugh. it comes out soft.

— can you do that?

— only the chai. emotional clarity’s a seasonal special. — she smiles to you like she just came out of a disney movie, then grabs a cup, scribbles something on the side.

you think you’ll leave it there; just a weird, slightly too-honest exchange with a stranger. but your chest is buzzing, and your mouth is tired of keeping secrets.

— can i tell you something insane?

she looks at you, curious. elbows on the counter, chin in her hand. she doesn’t look bored.

— always.

— i’m… losing my mind a little over this girl.

the words tumble out before you can pull them back.

— she… she did these things. and they’re not even big stuff. just… things that made me feel seen. and then she disappeared. not like, forever. for like a day or two. just enough to make me feel crazy. and then she’s back like nothing happened. it’s hot and then cold, you know?

you exhale. glance down. your fingers tap against the wood of the counter.

— and i believe i’ll keep letting her do it. because when she’s here, it’s… really good. and i think she’s trying. i want to believe she’s trying. but sometimes it feels like she’s just…

you don’t finish. sophia watches you for a second, then gently replies.

— you think she’s afraid?

you nod. a little too fast.

— yeah. i think she’s afraid of being loved.

— and you’re not?

— maybe. — you pause. — i think i’m more afraid of not trying.

she starts the espresso machine. the hiss and churn of it fills the silence between you.

— you know… — she says eventually. — when i was sixteen, i fell in love with someone who only called me when it rained.

you glance at her. — what?

— seriously. it would pour, and they’d text. every time. for almost a year. — she smiles, but there’s something sad behind it.

— i used to think it meant something. like maybe i reminded them of safety. or lightning. or the sound of thunder in someone else’s bed. — she shrugs. — turns out, they just didn’t like being alone when it stormed.

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. she hands you the drink. your name’s not on it; instead, she’s drawn a small sun and the words “this is a hug in a cup. :)”

— look, i don’t think your girl’s trying to hurt you. — she smiles at you sympathetically. — but sometimes people like that… they don’t know they’re pulling you under until you’ve already drowned.

your throat feels tight.

— yeah… i’m just terrified, you know?

— i know, truly. — she adds. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care.

you swallow hard. grip the cup. feel the warmth press against your palms like a second heartbeat. give her the money and don’t even bother about asking for the change. she definitely deserves it.

— thank you.

she nods, her smile making you believe for a second that she might be right. — i hope she figures it out.

you almost ask her name. then remember you already know it. so you leave the café with a little more silence in your body.

not emptiness, just space.

and of course, megan hasn’t texted back.

but you check anyway.

the studio walls on the velvet room’s backstage are mirror-lined and unforgiving. overhead, the lights buzz faintly, the kind of sound that feels like it’s echoing inside your teeth. the floor is a little sticky from last week’s sweat and glitter. it always is.

megan leans back against the barre, gum in her mouth, legs crossed at the ankle. she’s supposed to be warming up, stretching, something. instead, she watches lara in the mirror; ponytail sharp, eyeliner sharper, heels already on. lara looks like someone who bites when she loves you.

they’re rehearsing a shared number. or at least, they were supposed to be. it’s for friday’s late set: something femme fatale-coded, high energy, choreography that flirts with the edge of violence. lara had chosen the song. megan had said fine. she really didn’t care.

but her head’s not in it. not today.

she’s been messing up small things all afternoon; missing beats, forgetting transitions, zoning out mid-chorus. it’s pissing lara off. megan can feel it in the way she keeps clicking her nails against her thigh, like she’s trying not to scream.

— megan. — the indian scoffed, annoyed. — you’re two beats behind. again.

— i know.

— jesus christ, then fix it.

megan doesn’t move. she just shifts her jaw slightly, biting down harder on her gum, staring at her own reflection like it might offer her a better version of herself. it doesn’t.

lara exhales, sharp, just like her makeup.

— what the hell is going on with you today?

megan shrugs. doesn’t answer.

they’ve danced together a hundred times. shared sets, shared shots, shared nights curled into each other on lara’s couch when the world got too loud. this shouldn’t feel like a battle, but it does. today it does.

lara crosses the floor, heels clicking.

— i’m not going to babysit you through this, meg. if you can’t do the number-

— i can. — megan says it too fast. defensive. like she’s been caught bleeding.

— then act like it, god damn it. — lara counters.

— you’re off, you’re distracted, you’re… — she continues, then trails off, dragging her hands down her face. — is this about them?

silence. megan looks away. fixes her gaze on the smudge on the mirror near her hip. says nothing. lara sighs.

— okay, yeah. that’s what i thought.

megan still doesn’t speak. her throat is tight in a way she doesn’t like. lara softens, just slightly.

— you’ve been weird all week.

— no, i haven’t.

— megan.

that tone again; not angry, not pitying. worse. the one lara uses when she’s worried. and god knows how megan hates it.

she shrugs again. sits down on the floor, stretching her legs out, arms behind her for balance. her body feels too heavy. her chest even more so.

— i don’t know what i’m fucking doing. — she says, eventually.

— with them?

— with anything.

lara doesn’t laugh. doesn’t scoff. just sits next to her, their shoulders not quite touching.

— then do what you know.

megan chews her gum slower. the peppermint tastes like regret.

— it’s not that simple.

— yeah, it is.

they sit there in the silence for a beat. outside the studio, someone’s blasting music from the dressing rooms. something with too much bass, too much bravado. probably other girls who were rehearsing too. and the world keeps spinning. megan picks at her fishnets, nails chipping.

— it was supposed to be a hookup. — she says quietly. — that’s what i wanted. easy. clean. fun.

— and? — megan doesn’t answer. lara studies her, then sighs again. louder this time. more tired than angry. — ok, fine. do you wanna know what scares me?

— isn’t it, like, everything?

— cute. — lara smiled sarcastically. — but no. what scares me is watching you do what i did.

megan blinks, looking up. lara rarely goes here. not out loud. so, she paid attention.

— i felt something too, after that night with manon. — lara reluctantly said, almost swallowing her own words. — just for a second. one fucking second. like maybe i wasn’t alone in the world; maybe someone actually wanted me, not the performance. not dallas. then i ran. because that was easier. safer. and now? i keep thinking about the way she fucking caressed my hair when she thought i was asleep.

that’s the most she’s said about it since that night.

— you… really liked her? — megan stares.

— that’s not the point.

— it feels like the point.

— shut the fuck up, my point is… — she raised her voice for a second, then lowered it back again. — don’t do what i did. don’t pretend you don’t care just because you’re afraid they’ll stop.

— but what if they do?

— then at least you were honest. and you’ll survive it. like we always do.

— yeah, but that’s the point, lara. i don’t wanna survive it. — megan sighed. — i don’t know how to do it right. okay? i don’t know what they want from me. i don’t know if i can give it. i’m trying and i still fuck it up. i say something nice and then i hate myself for saying it. i feel soft and then i feel stupid. and they keep being… them. they’re so fucking kind it hurts. i hate it.

she buries her face in her hands.

— i fucking hate it.

lara watches her. eyes narrowed. something like protectiveness crests beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden.

— you don’t hate it. — she says.

megan doesn’t look up.

— you hate that it makes you want to be good.

megan scoffs. — fuck you.

— yeah, yeah.

they sit in it for a moment. the ruin of what megan isn’t saying. lara reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone.

— i’m putting something on. you’re going to breathe for five seconds and stop being a nightmare.

megan groans into her hands.

— don’t send me another thirst trap compilation.

— shut up, you love those.

— i don’t.

lara scrolls through her feed, thumb flicking fast. trying to find something dumb and distracting: a dog in pajamas, a couple falling off a paddleboard, something with sparkles. something easy.

but instead; there she is.

manon. on her screen. lips glossy, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head; the lighting is shit. but her voice is bright. and her smile’s too real. “thrift haul! let’s see how many gay crimes i can commit in one outfit!”

the screen shakes slightly as she flips the camera around. mirror shot. oversized leather trench coat. chain belt. cropped tee with a vintage graphic of the moon.

lara’s breath catches in her throat.

it’s stupid. it’s not even a hot video. she’s not dancing. not even trying.

but she looks so damn good. effortless. sharp and funny and alive. the way she talks to the camera like it’s an old friend. then lara’s hand freezes on the screen, her eyes trying their best not to roll.

— fuck.

megan glances over.

— what?

lara doesn’t answer. the video keeps playing. manon holds up a faux-fur coat with rhinestones on the collar and says “this is either a blessing or a curse and honestly i’m fine with both.”

megan snorts softly.

— you’re watching her tiktoks now?

lara swipes out of the app. shoves her phone face-down.

— it came up.

— sure.

— whatever.

megan leans back, grin small but alive now.

— do you miss her?

lara’s jaw flexes. — i miss not thinking about her.

— same.

a beat.

— so when you’re gonna tell her you left your favorite earring there?

— jesus christ, i don’t know.

— just saying. — megan shrugs, looking at the indian girl. — you’ve been debating this for three days.

— shut up. — megan just raises her brows. — i can’t just show up. it’ll look like i care.

— you do care.

— i don’t want to.

— doesn’t make it less true.

lara picks at her nail polish. chips it off in angry flakes.

— what would you do then, smart-ass?

— me?

— yeah. if it were you. if you left something in (y/n)’s bed and didn’t know how to go back for it without handing them your heart on a plate.

megan thinks for a moment. then shrugs.

— i’d probably pretend i came for the earring, then make some excuse about how i didn’t even like it that much. but really i’d just want to see them again.

lara goes still.

— well, that’s fucking stupid.

— it is.

— but also maybe i’ll do it. not like you, though. that shit’s way too emotional for me.

megan leans back on her palms. the sweat cooling on her collarbones.

— tomorrow?

— yeah. maybe.

— want me to come?

— no. — then, quieter. — i think i have to do it alone.

— well… — megan stands. brushes dust off her thighs. — you’ll be fine.

— you say that like you believe it.

— i don’t. but i say it anyway.

lara watches her stretch, watches the way her muscles flex and settle. she wonders if (y/n) notices that too. she bets they do.

this room doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a cracked glass door above a laundromat. the buzzer always broken, the hallway always smelling faintly of bleach and cheap incense. the kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what it was.

but to megan, it’s one of the only places in the city that doesn’t ask her to be anything.

the studio is warm when she steps in. humid from bodies, from movement, from the echo of whatever song was just playing. the floor is a little warped near the mirrors. the ceiling fan clicks. someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the barre like it lives there.

there are ten, maybe twelve students tonight. all kinds: a bartender with a buzzcut, two nursing students who come on their off weeks, someone who teaches yoga and always wears too many bracelets. none of them look like the girls at the velvet room. no glitter. no lashes. no faking.

here, sweat is just sweat. not spectacle.

the instructor plays a low-tempo r&b track and starts calling out warmups, but it’s loose. no one’s here to impress anyone. just to move. to let their bodies be something besides currency.

megan sheds her hoodie and finds a spot near the corner. she ties her hair up in a quick knot and lets her shoulders roll back, the ache of the day bleeding slowly down her spine. there’s no choreography yet, just a long stretch of breath and flow. hips shifting, ankles loosening, torsos bending with the music. she lets herself get lost in it. or she tries to.

but her head’s still full of you.

still looping back to the texts, the silences between them. still thinking about the way you looked that first night in your apartment; nervous, knees bouncing, wearing that one jacket and trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding. the way you listened. the way you didn’t run.

she hates that she keeps thinking about you like this. like she’s seventeen again and still thinks crushes are a kind of religion.

but she does. and it’s starting to show.

— hey, stranger. you’re late.

sophia’s voice breaks the loop. megan turns, and there she is: perched near the windows, stretching her legs in her usual half-graceful way, hair braided tight down her back, tank top tucked into carefully chosen leggings. she always looks like she walked out of a painting and into a dance class. megan hates how comforting that is.

— wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.

— fair enough.

they fall into their usual rhythm, stretching near each other, no real pressure to talk, just syncing up. sophia’s already glancing at her in that quiet, knowing way, like she’s waiting for the admission she knows is coming.

megan stalls for a while. bends. breathes. watches her reflection in the mirror and tries not to think about whether you’d still look at her the same if you saw her here.

the instructor cues up a guided improv drill. everyone’s scattered around the room now, moving to the rhythm without mirrors, facing inward. it’s not about precision. it’s about emotion. presence. release.

megan dances like she’s trying to remember what her body is for. not performance. not seduction. not survival.

just hers.

soft shoulders. open arms. eyes half-closed. but she still feels off, even after her conversation with lara. like something’s humming wrong in her ribcage.

when the exercise ends, everyone collapses to the floor or leans on the barre. the lights are dimmed now. the window’s cracked, letting in the smell of street food and summer sweat.

she and sophia drift to the corner together. they sit, legs sprawled, water bottles pressed to their necks. and after a long pause, megan decided to, for once, take the first step.

— i met someone.

sophia doesn’t flinch. just raises a brow. megan fidgets with the label on her bottle, eyes on her fingers.

— i didn’t mean to. it was supposed to be… nothing. or fun. or whatever. but they’re… — she shakes her head. — they’re soft. and sharp. like, smart but quiet about it. and they made me feel like i mattered. not just… existed.

sophia watches her. not judging, never. just absorbing.

— well, that sounds terrifying. — she says, soft smile tugging at her lips.

— it is.

— and?

— and i don’t know what to do with it.

megan leans back on her elbows, the floor still warm beneath her. the ceiling above her spins gently. her voice drops.

— they’re a college student, sophia. good kid, the kind of person who plays those weird medieval games with dices on their mom’s basement. and i’m… me. a girl who strips three nights a week because her life didn’t turned out the way she planned.

megan stopped for a second; sophia just listened.

— and i keep thinking they’re gonna wake up and realize what this is. what i am. and they’ll go tell their friends “oh yeah, remember when i hooked up with that stripper?” — she scoffed. — like i’m gonna be their edgy college rebellion they survived.

after a couple of seconds, sophia said softly, the only way she knew how.

— you know, i met someone at work today. — she says, voice warm, then megan looks over.

— just a customer. we barely talked. i made them some chai, poor thing looked like they were carrying the weight of the world in a canvas tote bag. didn’t even realize how much they were spilling until they were halfway through their order. said something about someone being distant, magnetic and scary in a beautiful way.

megan goes still. then sophia smiles, small.

— i gave them this exact advice. so i’m giving it to you too. — sophia held megan’s hand and squeezed it slightly. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care. and if they care, they’ll stay. not because you made it easy. but because you were real.

megan exhales through her nose. the kind of breath that’s half-sob, half-surrender. — but what if i ruin it?

— then you learn. and try again. and live. — sophia said, as if the solution to this problem was simple and easy. — but maybe; just maybe, you don’t ruin it. maybe you get it right this time around.

megan doesn’t answer. she picks at her knee. there’s a scar there from rollerblading in sixth grade. her skin’s always trying to remind her of who she was. sophia speaks again, quieter now.

— i know you think being seen is dangerous. but maybe this time it’s just being loved.

megan feels something lodge in her throat. her heart hiccups. she bites the inside of her cheek.

— i keep waiting for them to change their mind.

— have they given you any reason to think they will?

— no.

— then stop making yourself suffer in advance. go a little easier on yourself, huh?

megan’s quiet for a long time. just the sound of music switching again in the background, bodies stretching, someone cracking their back.

— should i text them?

sophia gives her a look.

— you already know the answer, honey.

megan pulls out her phone. the screen glows too bright. your last text is still there, soft and patient.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

she stares at it like it might respond if she waits long enough.

— i want to see them. — she says, mostly to herself. sophia smiles, almost proudly.

— so ask them out.

megan types. deletes. types again. tries a hundred different combinations of words.

megan: wanna get food tomorrow?

megan: not a date. don’t be weird about it.

she shows sophia.

— pathetic?

— very. — sophia grins. — they’re gonna love it.

megan stares a moment longer. then hits send.

the message floats away like a dare.

she locks her phone. presses it to her chest. breathes deep.

— fuck, i’m gonna hate myself if this goes bad.

— no, you won’t.

— why?

— because this time you’re not disappearing first.

megan doesn’t answer. just stares at the ceiling, where the fan keeps spinning, and lets the soft ache of hope settle into her sternum like something earned.

[hazelira]

controller down, baby up

𝐡𝐞𝐞 · ʚ 🦌 ɞ ‧ 𝐡𝐞𝐞

Heeseung’s laughter echoed through his headset as his fingers flew over the controller, knuckles tight with anticipation. “Yo, I told you! I told you!” he shouted triumphantly, momentarily glancing at the flashing scoreboard on the screen.

The foam mat behind him rustled softly.

“Just one more round,” he muttered, mostly to himself, leaning forward. The bass from his headphones boomed as his squad hooted and hollered on comms, “Hyung, your kid okay? Thought I heard something—”

Heeseung barely registered it. Hanuel was babbling just moments ago, rolling on the soft mat in his oversized onesie, gnawing hungrily on his fist like it owed him money. His cheeks were full, his arms plump and dimpled, and he had that soft baby scent that made the world feel lighter.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

A muffled thud. A beat of silence. Then a whimper—small, almost unsure, like a baby trying to understand if something hurt enough to cry about. And then—wailing.

Real, raw, panicked.

Heeseung’s entire body went cold.

His controller dropped to the floor with a clack, forgotten. He yanked his headphones off, nearly pulling the cable with him as he spun around.

“Hanuel—!” he gasped.

His baby boy was facedown on the playmat, fists clenched, body trembling as sobs racked through his small frame—Heeseung dove forward, scooping him up with wide arms. The moment Hanuel’s face lifted, Heeseung saw a little red mark blooming on his cheek, wet with drool and tears.

“Oh my god—oh, baby—”

He cradled him to his chest, rocking instinctively as Hanuel wailed into his shirt, little fists pounding weakly against Heeseung’s collarbone.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t see, I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispered repeatedly, kissing the crown of his son's head, eyes stinging. Hanuel’s cries were breathless now, hiccupy, each like a knife.

Heeseung swore under his breath and glanced back at his monitor. His camera was still on.

Click.

Off.

His friends' voices still streamed through chat:

“What happened?”

“Is the baby okay?”

“Bro—don’t worry, just go, take care of him.”

He ignored it all.

Nothing else mattered except the weight in his arms, the tiny sobbing hiccups, the guilt tightening around his ribs like a vice.

He gently sat down on the floor, knees drawn up so he could curl around Hanuel protectively. “Shh… Daddy’s got you. You’re okay now. I’ve got you, baby.” His voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. You trusted me…”

Hanuel had stopped screaming, but tears still streamed down his cheeks as he buried his face in Heeseung’s neck, warm and snotty and sticky.

Heeseung pressed his lips to that soft, pudgy cheek—carefully, just beside the red mark. “It’s okay now. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

He rocked him like that for a long while, whispering apologies, promises, and little soothing sounds he didn’t realize he still remembered from those first newborn nights.

Eventually, Hanuel’s breath steadied, his fists still curled but calm. The room was quiet. The game was forgotten, but his heart still thundered with guilt.

“I’m not looking away again,” Heeseung murmured into his son’s downy hair. “No game, no match, nothing’s more important than you.”

In the soft lull that followed, with Hanuel falling asleep against his chest, Heeseung held him closer, grateful but ashamed, and quietly vowing to do better. Always.

The game had long ended.

Heeseung sat on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, a bottle of lukewarm milk half-forgotten in his hand. Hanuel was fast asleep in his lap, his cheek still a little pink. Tiny lips parted as he snored gently, his little fists now peaceful against his chest.

Heeseung hadn’t turned the console off. He hadn’t even moved after settling down with his baby boy. His heart still hadn’t fully slowed.

The guilt sat heavy on his shoulders.

He startled slightly when his phone buzzed next to him. He leaned over carefully, mindful of Hanuel, and picked it up.

Group Chat: \[LOL Gaming]

Jake: yo. Hyung. u good?

Jay: seriously, what happened back there? sounded scary

Sunghoon: is the baby okay?? 🥺

Ni-ki: bro u dipped mid-killcam 😭

Heeseung stared at the messages for a beat before sighing and typing one-handed.

Heeseung: he fell face-first onto the mat. I wasn’t looking. cried so hard. I feel like the worst dad in the world.

The typing bubbles popped up almost instantly.

Jake: man. It happens. Don’t beat yourself up.

Jay: Is he okay now?

Heeseung: yeah. Sleeping on me right now. red cheek. Scared the hell outta me. I was RIGHT THERE, and I still missed it.

Sunghoon: You’re human, hyung. Not a robot. Even the best parents can’t catch everything. the fact that you care this much means you’re doing good.

Ni-ki: he’s a baby tank, tho. Chubby kids bounce 😤

Heeseung let out a soft, breathy laugh. Carefully, he shifted Hanuel just enough to free his other arm and took a photo: his sleeping son, warm and safe in his lap, cheek red but peaceful, arms sprawled like he owned the world.

Heeseung: \[photo attached] My little tank.

Jake: look at those chonker arms🥹

Jay: dimples in his fists. I’m done. Protect him at all costs.

Sunghoon: Next time, just pause the game, Hyung. We can wait. You don’t need to juggle it all at once.

Heeseung stared at that last message the longest. His chest ached differently.

Heeseung: Thanks, guys. Really.

Ni-ki: anytime. Just don’t forget to turn your mic off next time, lol, we heard you crying.

Heeseung flushed. “Damn it.”

Another message popped up.

Jay: Don’t worry. We cried too.

He smiled.

Hanuel shifted in his arms, letting out a tiny sigh and pressing his face deeper into Heeseung’s chest. The kind of trust that undid him.

“Yeah,” he whispered, gently brushing the baby’s hair. “You’re okay. And I will be too.”

This time, he turned off the console. And just sat there, holding the most crucial thing in his world.

The apartment was quiet when you slipped your keys into the lock, the soft click almost too loud in the stillness. You stepped inside, shoes off, and your work bag dropped gently by the door. The clock read past midnight.

You expected silence, maybe the TV on low, or Heeseung dozing off on the couch.

But what you found instead stopped you in your tracks.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the playmat, his hair a little messy, and his headset tangled on the nearby table. He wore one of your oversized hoodies—probably something he threw on for comfort—and in his lap, curled into his chest, was Hanuel.

Your baby.

Your sweet, squishy, full-of-rolls baby, fast asleep against his dad’s chest, his mouth slightly open, one tiny fist pressed into Heeseung’s hoodie. His cheek had a faint pink mark, but it looked like it had faded with time, or maybe with all the kisses Heeseung was giving him.

Because that’s what he was doing.

Heeseung didn’t hear you come in.

He pressed soft kisses to Hanuel’s forehead, cheek, and chubby fists. Murmuring things between kisses—little apologies, little reassurances, voice low and raw with emotion.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t catch you, baby,” he whispered. “I’m right here now, okay? I’ll always be right here.”

Your heart twisted.

Not just from the sight of it, but from the weight you could hear in his voice—the guilt, the tenderness, the sheer love.

You stepped forward, finally speaking, your voice soft. “Heeseung.”

His head shot up, startled.

He blinked at you, eyes glassy, then his shoulders dropped, like just seeing you was enough to let some guilt leak out. “You’re home…”

You knelt beside them, brushing a gentle hand over Hanuel’s downy hair before looking up at your husband. “Heeseung, what happened?”

He looked down, then back at you. “He fell. While I was… I was playing. I turned around, and he had face-planted on the mat. He cried so hard. I didn’t even—” He stopped, eyes closing tightly. ��I wasn’t looking.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just took in the sight of your son, peacefully asleep, safe, warm in Heeseung’s arms—breathing steadily, the very picture of trust.

You reached up and cupped Heeseung’s cheek.

“He’s okay,” you said softly. “And he still thinks you hung the moon.”

Heeseung leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I should’ve been better.”

“You are better,” you whispered, kissing his forehead, then pressing your lips to Hanuel’s soft head. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to both of us.”

He gave you a watery smile, arms tightening around the chonker between you.

“I just love him so much,” he said, voice cracking. “And I hate that I let him cry like that. I should’ve—”

“You’re learning. Just like he is.” You nudged your nose against his. “And you love him more than anything. That’s all he needs.”

Heeseung nodded slowly, then looked down at Hanuel again. “I gave him, like, seventy apology kisses. Think I should go for eighty.”

You smiled. “Go for a hundred. Round it out.”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound light and healing, and bent to kiss Hanuel again, slow and reverent.

And you watched them both—your two sleepy, messy boys, tangled together on the playmat—and thought: this is it. This is home.

© hazelira | tumblr

requested by: @teddybeartaetae

baby taglist<3

@youngheejay @axfyl @jalicecookie @curiousdemonfox @reep04 @thestarinstarbucks @nmurark05 @yuuuraaa @ethanatvre @laylasbunbunny @24svnn @pinkglitterpuke @leilamaybelyla @heeseungsbm @kireistrawberryjayla @en-cityy @flowerkeu @ro-diaries

[lanadelspray02]

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 14

paige x azzi

hey guys :) hope you all enjoy this chapter. let me know what you think. i appreciate all of you <3

shoutout @purplepaigepurple535 for helping me with my indecisiveness

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 8167

--------------------

The first thing Paige registered was warmth.

Not just physical warmth, though that was definitely there, a soft, squirmy weight pressed to her chest but something quieter. Heavier. Like the inside of her ribs had unclenched overnight and finally decided to stay that way.

One tiny hand was fisted in the front of her shirt, the other splayed across her collarbone, as if claiming ownership. Her body felt too heavy to move, but not in the aching, hungover kind of way. More like she'd spent the whole night running toward something and finally arrived.

She blinked slowly, the ceiling above her gradually coming into focus.

Ruby.

Fast asleep on her chest, cheek smooshed into the fabric, her curls a full-on storm. One sticky strand clung to her forehead with sleep sweat, and Sparklehorn, ever loyal, was wedged between them like a sacred relic, her glitter horn slightly bent, one plastic eye rubbed half-faded from devotion.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Her arms were already cradling Ruby without thinking, her breath slowed to match the toddler’s like some part of her had recalibrated during the night. She could feel the small rise and fall against her chest, that tiny heartbeat tucked somewhere beneath fleece pajamas and trust.

And across the bed, barely a breath away. Azzi.

Still asleep, but just on the edge of waking. Her brow twitched in the early morning light leaking through the blinds. Her hand rested protectively on Ruby’s back, palm spread wide, like she’d placed it there sometime in the night and never moved.

Paige’s gaze lingered.

Azzi’s lips were parted, her cheek pressed slightly into the pillow, hair a soft halo fanned behind her. She looked younger like this. Vulnerable in a way that made something in Paige ache. Her first instinct was to stay still. Not out of fear but of reverence. Like moving would break the spell.

But then the dull throb behind her eyes reminded her of last night’s drinks, and her dry mouth begged for mercy. Slowly, carefully, like defusing a bomb, she began to extract herself. She peeled Ruby’s fingers from her shirt one at a time, replacing herself with Sparklehorn in a quiet sleight of hand.

Ruby murmured something that sounded vaguely like “juice box,” but didn’t stir. Azzi’s fingers flexed once on Ruby’s back, then settled again.

Paige sat up, moving like a ghost. Her shirt slipped down her shoulder as she tiptoed to the door. She looked back once, at the small tangle of limbs, curls, and love in the middle of the bed and then pulled the door shut with a soft click.

The hallway was cool against her skin. The light had shifted to that specific shade of gold that only existed between dawn and morning, slanting in through the curtains like an invitation. Her socked feet barely made a sound as she padded across the hardwood.

She didn’t expect anyone else to be up. The house felt like the kind of still that followed a storm, quiet, full, earned.

Until she walked into the kitchen.

Katie was there, sitting at the table in a pale blue robe, legs crossed at the ankle, a crossword puzzle open in front of her and a steaming mug balanced near her elbow. She didn’t look surprised. Just… watchful.

Paige froze like a deer in high beams, one foot still mid-step. “Morning,” she said, voice hoarse with sleep and nerves.

Katie looked up, her expression unreadable. “Morning.”

There was a beat of silence. Katie’s eyes flicked briefly over her, Azzi’s oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair tousled and half-up like she’d just rolled out of someone else’s bed. Which, technically, she had.

Paige felt the flush creep up her neck. “Um… water?”

Katie lifted her mug slightly. “Glasses in the rack. Filter pitcher’s in the fridge.”

“Thanks.” Paige moved quickly to the sink, grabbing a glass and filling it. The first gulp burned a trail down her throat in the best possible way. The second calmed her pulse a little. She pressed the cool rim to her lips and let herself breathe.

She could feel Katie behind her, not in an ominous way. Just present. Solid.

“I’m sorry,” Paige said finally, turning around and gripping the edge of the counter. “For showing up last night like that. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t uninvited.”

“I still should’ve… I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Katie said. “Not really.”

Paige shifted her weight, wrapping one arm around her midsection. “I didn’t want your first impression of me to be, you know… drunk.”

Katie took a sip of coffee, her voice even. “It wasn’t my first impression.”

Paige blinked. “It wasn’t?”

Katie tilted her head, studying her. “You picked her up for karaoke. Opened the car door for her. Said thank you. Didn’t stare when Tim asked you three too many questions. You were nervous. But kind. That stuck.”

Paige’s fingers tightened around her glass. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

Katie shrugged lightly. “I remember how people treat my daughter. You were respectful. She was smiling when she left. That counts for something.”

There was a pause, long enough for the tension to stretch and shift.

Then Katie said, quietly but clearly, “Ruby’s vulnerable. Azzi too. I don’t say that to scare you, I say it because I’ve seen what happens when people forget.”

Paige nodded slowly. “I know.”

“You did the bedtime routine with her last night.”

It wasn’t a question.

Paige blinked, then smiled faintly. “You heard that?”

Katie nodded. “Heard her giggling through the vent. You told her Sparklehorn was a ‘space unicorn guardian of dreams.’ She asked you to say goodnight first.”

“She was very serious about it,” Paige said, chuckling under her breath.

“She’s two,” Katie said. “Everything’s life or death at that age. If you say you’ll be there, you better be. If you say you care, it has to show.”

Paige looked down at the countertop, her throat tight. “I do care.”

Katie watched her. “Then just know what that means. This isn’t dating for fun. Azzi’s not a girl who floats in and out of things. She doesn’t have that luxury.”

“I’m not floating,” Paige said. “I’m not playing.”

Katie was silent for a long moment. Then she asked, “Are you scared?”

Paige’s voice was quiet but immediate. “Yes. But not of them. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.”

Katie’s gaze didn’t soften, but something in her posture did, a small tilt of the shoulders, a slow sip of coffee.

“Then you already care more than I feared you might.”

Before Paige could answer, soft footsteps echoed down the hallway. She turned just in time to see a familiar curly head peek into the kitchen.

“Paigey?”

Ruby’s voice was hoarse with sleep. She stood in the doorway in her sock feet, dragging Sparklehorn by one leg like a chosen weapon. Her pajamas were rumpled, her curls a lopsided halo. One of her socks was missing.

“You still here?”

Paige crouched without thinking, arms wide. “I’m still here.”

Ruby barreled forward and wrapped her arms around her neck like Paige might vanish if she let go. Paige scooped her up and kissed her cheek.

“You didn’t say bye,” Ruby said, mumbly against her shoulder.

“I was gonna sneak back in,” Paige said, rocking her gently. “Morning snuggles, remember?”

“You late,” Ruby said, very seriously.

Katie chuckled into her mug. Paige just nodded solemnly. “I’ll set an alarm next time.”

Ruby leaned back, frowning. “You smell like bar.”

Paige winced. “Ummm…Not for long.”

“You watch ‘nicorn show with me?”

Paige looked at Katie, who gave a half-smile and waved them on. “Go. She won’t stop until you do.”

Paige grinned, shifted Ruby on her hip, and headed toward the living room.

Behind her, Katie turned another page in the crossword, smiling to herself like she wasn’t surprised at all.

--------------------

Paige carried Ruby into the living room like she’d done it a hundred times before, one arm wrapped around her little legs, the other balancing Sparklehorn with practiced ease. Ruby’s cheek was pressed to her shoulder now, half-awake, murmuring nonsense about cartoons and cookies in the same breath.

The room was dim and soft, blinds still mostly drawn except for one angled sliver of light across the rug. A thin throw blanket lay folded at the edge of the couch, and Ruby reached out for it as Paige set her down.

“You want it?” Paige asked.

Ruby nodded sleepily. “Sparklehorn cold.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Paige whispered solemnly, unfolding the blanket and draping it across them both.

Ruby snuggled instantly into Paige’s lap, tucking her knees up and pulling the blanket to her chin. Sparklehorn was placed front and center, seated between them like a royal guest of honor. Paige didn’t bother trying to move her. She was clearly essential.

With her free hand, Paige grabbed the remote from the coffee table and began scrolling through the streaming apps, the blue glow lighting her face in quick flickers.

“What are we watching today, Your Highness?” she asked.

Ruby pointed with regal authority. “The one with the glitter duck.”

Paige squinted. “Is that the one where they ride the slime train to the sparkle cave?”

Ruby nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “And then the pancake talks.”

“Of course,” Paige said, clicking into the episode. “A classic.”

The opening credits started with an aggressively catchy theme song that Paige already half-knew from FaceTime, complete with talking marshmallows and breakdancing ducks. Ruby squealed and clapped once, then settled fully back into Paige’s arms like this was her final form.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just… held her.

She didn’t expect how natural it would feel. Or how overwhelming.

The weight of Ruby’s body on her legs. The tiny fingers resting against her ribs. It was all too much and not enough all at once.

Somewhere behind her, footsteps padded quietly down the hall.

She didn’t look.

Not yet.

Because she felt her.

Azzi paused in the doorway.

She was still in her sweats, curls pulled into a loose bun, face bare and soft with sleep. Her mouth opened, maybe to speak, maybe just to breathe, but no sound came out. She stood there like someone who had just walked into a dream she didn’t want to disrupt.

Paige. On the couch. Holding Ruby like she’d been born to. Sparklehorn tucked into the fold of the blanket like a third passenger. Ruby giggling at a cartoon duck with glitter shoes. Paige’s arm resting along the back of the couch, hand curled instinctively around Ruby’s side.

It was a domestic image. Soft. Loud in the quietest way.

And Azzi’s heart didn’t know what to do with it.

She stepped forward slowly, almost cautiously, and leaned down without a word. She pressed a kiss to Paige’s hair, warm, quiet, lingering and then circled the couch and dropped onto the other side of Ruby, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling the blanket higher over all three of them.

Her shoulder brushed Paige’s. Paige didn’t pull away.

They sat like that, a tangle of limbs, fleece, and morning breath with the cartoon flickering across the screen and Ruby’s laughter filling every space that used to feel uncertain.

After a few minutes, Ruby shifted and reached toward Azzi without looking. Azzi held her hand immediately, squeezing once.

Then Ruby shifted again, wriggling her little legs to press her feet under Paige’s thigh like she owned the whole couch. Paige adjusted automatically, letting the girl settle. Azzi caught the way Paige’s hand came up and gently pushed a rogue curl away from Ruby’s eyes.

Azzi turned her face just slightly, watched her from the side.

Paige looked dazed. Not tired. Not confused. Just… quietly stunned. Like she hadn’t fully realised what it meant to be part of this. To be wanted here.

“You okay?” Azzi asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige nodded slowly, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah. I’m… really good.”

Azzi didn’t push.

Ruby rolled to her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other still clutching Sparklehorn like a lifeline. Her eyes fluttered once, fighting it, but Azzi could already see the signs, the rhythmic breathing, the soft twitch of lashes against flushed cheeks.

“She might knock out again,” Azzi murmured.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Paige said, voice low, her fingers still brushing absently over Ruby’s back. “Feels like I’ve been running forever and just… stopped.”

Azzi swallowed. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

“I know.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while.

The cartoon ended. Another started. Ruby snored once, loudly, then quieted again.

Azzi leaned her head gently against Paige’s shoulder. Paige tipped her head to rest against hers in return.

And for that one hour, beneath a pastel blanket, surrounded by the low hum of a cartoon world full of talking pancakes and sparkle ducks, nothing else existed. No away games. No headlines. No pressure. Just the warmth of a little girl tucked between them, and the slow, growing truth that this was what it meant to be home.

--------------------

The house was quieter than before, not because anyone had told it to be, but because some mornings just came that way. Ruby was fast asleep again, curled like a comma between couch cushions and the collapsed body of Sparklehorn, her sticky hands still clutching fleece and mane. Paige had helped tuck the blanket higher, her fingers lingering for a moment before she stood, stretching her arms above her head with a soft groan.

Azzi caught her eye as she moved toward the back door. Paige didn’t say anything, just tilted her head slightly, the unspoken you coming? clear enough.

Azzi followed.

The screen door creaked as they stepped onto the back porch. It was early enough that the sun still clung low on the horizon, turning the trees a muted gold. The breeze was gentle but honest, carrying that faint, metallic scent of dew off grass and sidewalk.

Paige sat on the top step, legs stretched out, arms feeling the light breeze. Azzi’s sweatpants hung low on her hips, the drawstring unevenly knotted, and her hair was scraped back into a loose bun she hadn’t touched since rolling out of bed. She looked… undone in the most human way. Like the version of herself she didn’t often let the world see.

Azzi joined her without a word, mug in hand, curling one leg beneath her as she sat close, just enough for their arms to brush.

For a few long moments, they didn’t speak. Just watched the yard settle into itself, wind threading lazily through the leaves, a squirrel darting along the fence line, a wind chime clinking softly somewhere above them.

Azzi let her shoulder tip gently into Paige’s. “You good?”

Paige let out a breath through her nose. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Always.”

The quiet returned, but it didn’t feel unfinished.

Paige wrapped both hands around her mug like she needed the heat to anchor her. She stared ahead, eyes somewhere in the middle distance. Azzi watched her, not pressing, just waiting.

Then Paige said, “I keep replaying last night. The game. That kiss in the closet. The way you looked at me.”

Azzi looked down into her coffee. Her heart tripped.

“I don’t know what would’ve happened if Ruby hadn’t come in,” Paige added softly. “Not saying I regret stopping. I don’t. But I was close to…” She paused, searching for the words. “To losing myself in you.”

Azzi’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

“You were on top of me,” Paige went on, voice low now. “Your hands were under my shirt. You looked at me like I wasn’t just something you wanted. Like I was something you already had. It scared the shit out of me.”

Azzi turned toward her, face quiet, open.

“I wanted you so bad,” Paige whispered. “Still do. But more than that? I wanted to feel close to you. Not just physically. I mean really close. I was sitting there thinking, I’m already yours. I just haven’t said it yet.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

“I love you,” Paige said, her eyes finally meeting hers. “I’m in love with you.”

The words didn’t fall between them, they landed. With weight. With certainty.

Azzi didn’t answer right away. Her eyes blinked once, twice. Her fingers tightened around the mug like she needed to hold on to something or she’d float off the porch entirely.

“I know it’s fast,” Paige added, quieter now. “I kept trying not to say it. Telling myself it was too soon. That maybe it wasn’t fair to tell you, with everything you’re already carrying. But I don’t care anymore. I love you. I love how strong you are. How you love Ruby like she invented joy. How you make me feel like I’m allowed to want this. This. You and Ruby. I finally understand what people talk about when they describe what a home is, I don't think i ever truly felt a home… not until i met you.”

Azzi stared at her, glassy-eyed, lips parted slightly like she was still mid-breath.

“And I love,” Paige added, her voice cracking just a little, “how you look at me when I’m not paying attention. Like I’m real. How you just make everything okay.”

Azzi set her mug down carefully on the step. Then turned fully to face her, one leg crossed, hand pressed to her knee.

“You know I’ve only ever said that to one person,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige nodded. “Ruby.”

Azzi nodded again. “Yeah. And now…”

She reached forward, hesitated, then brushed her fingers lightly against Paige’s cheek.

“…you.”

Paige blinked fast. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” Azzi said. “I didn’t know how to say it. I kept thinking if I said it out loud, it’d ruin the thing we were building. That it would be too much. But… it’s always been there.”

Paige’s chest rose like she’d finally let herself take a full breath.

“I think part of me was waiting for you to say it first,” Azzi admitted. “Because then I’d know you weren’t just caught up in everything. That you were choosing it.”

“I am,” Paige said. “I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you. Every day.”

Azzi leaned in, forehead pressing to Paige’s. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Azzi’s voice was smaller now, but sure. “Yeah. Okay. I love you. And I want this.”

Paige smiled, her hands reaching up to cup Azzi’s face. “Then let’s do this.”

Azzi laughed softly. “This?”

“This,” Paige said. “Ruby. Your family. My chaos. Basketball. All of it. You and me figuring it out.”

Azzi pulled back just slightly to look at her, really look at her. “You’re serious.”

“I bought a unicorn lip balm for a toddler,” Paige said. “I’ve never been more serious.”

Azzi laughed, fully this time, and leaned in to kiss her, not fast, not fiery, just full. Like a truth they’d been holding in their mouths for days. When she pulled back, her smile lingered.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Paige shrugged. “You love me.”

Azzi grinned. “God help me, I really do.”

They leaned into each other again, shoulders pressed, mugs cooling beside them, the backyard stretching out under the weight of the morning sun. There were games ahead, and challenges, and maybe even heartbreaks someday. But in that moment, all either of them could feel was the steadiness of the porch beneath them and the rightness of the space they’d carved, a space big enough for love, and chaos, and cartoon ducks, and Sparklehorn.

And for once, neither of them flinched from the word that scared them most.

Because now? Now it was safe to say it.

--------------------

The park wasn’t anything special. Just a modest patch of green tucked between quiet streets and faded picket fences, with rusted swings, a sandbox that had seen better days, and a slide that creaked like it had its own opinions. But Ruby didn’t care. To her, it may as well have been Disneyland with exclusive Sparklehorn VIP access.

She bolted from the car the second Azzi unbuckled her booster, Sparklehorn in one hand, the other pumping wildly like she was running a 100-meter dash. Her pink hoodie with glitter stars on the sleeves flapped behind her like a cape. Every step she took made her sneakers flash neon blue, a feature she’d proudly demonstrated four separate times before they even left the house.

“She’s fast,” Paige said, jogging a few steps to keep pace, her hands deep in the front pocket of Azzi’s loaned hoodie.

“Always has been,” Azzi replied, squinting at the sun as she locked the car. “Park’s basically her kingdom.”

Paige watched Ruby charge toward the twisty slide like a conquering hero. “Reckless monarch energy.”

Azzi smiled without looking, but Paige caught the edge of it anyway. There was something about Azzi in mum-mode that made her breath catch. That quiet attentiveness, the way she clocked every potential fall zone or unstable patch of mulch like it was a defensive assignment.

They made their way over to a shady bench beneath an old tree that groaned a little in the breeze. Half sun, half shadow. Just enough coverage to keep an eye on the playground without hovering.

Paige sat first, legs splayed comfortably, one hand resting across the back of the bench. Azzi dropped in beside her, her knee brushing Paige’s before settling close enough to feel it.

Ruby was already halfway up the ladder, calling over her shoulder: “I go super fast now! Like wheeee!”

Paige cupped her hands around her mouth. “We’re watching! No speed limits, Your Majesty!”

Ruby raised her arms like she was about to jump off the Empire State Building, then launched down the slide with the grace of a greased bowling pin. At the bottom, she popped up, triumphant. “Did you see?!”

“Ten out of ten!” Paige called back. “Would recommend!”

Ruby sprinted around for another go.

“You’re good at that,” Azzi murmured.

“At what?”

“Her. Talking to her like she’s the main character.”

Paige shrugged. “She is the main character.”

Azzi laughed softly. “You’re just lucky she hasn’t tried to knight you with Sparklehorn yet.”

“I’d kneel in a heartbeat.”

They sat like that for a while, watching Ruby do increasingly chaotic laps around the playground, up the ladder, down the slide, repeat, occasionally throwing in a twirl or a dramatic proclamation. At one point she announced that Sparklehorn was queen of the mulch and couldn’t be left alone for fear of sandbox goblins.

Paige leaned back against the bench, arms stretched along the top, hair pulled up into a frizzy ponytail. The hoodie sleeves were too long, and she kept rolling them and unrolling them without realizing.

Azzi watched the soft play of wind through Paige’s hair. How she smiled without thinking when Ruby yelled her name. The way she tracked Ruby’s movement automatically, eyes never straying too far.

“You okay?” Azzi asked gently, not out of worry, just habit.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. I just… didn’t think I’d feel like this.”

Azzi tilted her head.

“Like I belong here,” Paige said. “With you. With her. With all of it.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, just reached over and linked their pinkies, the smallest, softest kind of anchor.

Eventually, Ruby made her way to the swing set, a two-seater with cracked rubber seats and chains that squeaked like an old screen door. She plopped Sparklehorn into the empty swing beside her and climbed up with a huff.

“Mama! Push me! I fly now!”

Azzi stood instinctively, but before she could take a full step, Ruby turned and pointed like a Roman emperor choosing a gladiator.

“No! PAIGEY push me!”

Paige blinked. “Wait, what?”

Ruby was already kicking her legs impatiently. “You make me go HIGH.”

Azzi laughed under her breath and sat back down. “You’ve been chosen.”

Paige stood slowly, nervously walking over towards the swing set. “Okay, okay. I got this.”

She moved behind the swing, positioning her hands with the precision of a bomb technician. “Ready?”

“GO!”

Paige gave a gentle nudge.

“Higher!”

Another push.

“HIGHHHHERRRR!!”

“I swear, you’re gonna summon the glitter gods if we keep this up,” Paige muttered, half-laughing.

Azzi watched from the bench, half in shade, one hand resting against her cheek. She wasn’t even pretending not to stare. Paige looked so unguarded out there, legs braced in the mulch, sleeves falling past her knuckles, grinning at every giggle that came out of Ruby’s mouth.

Paige didn’t notice the photo until the shutter sound betrayed her.

“Did you just—?”

Azzi held up her phone. “You looked soft.”

Paige flushed. “You could’ve warned me.”

“Would’ve ruined it.”

“Unbelievable,” Paige said, but she was smiling.

“You always look best when you’re not trying.”

“I try?”

Azzi gave her a look. “Only when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous now,” Paige said.

Azzi nodded slowly. “I know.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that felt like leaning into a favorite hoodie, warm, familiar, safe.

Then, mid-swing, Ruby yelled: “MAMA! PAIGEY!”

Both of them looked up.

Ruby was red-cheeked from the wind, her curls bouncing, Sparklehorn flying like a tiny glitter missile beside her.

“Do you two like like each other?”.

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“You know,” Ruby said, slowing down slightly. “Like Poppy and Grandma. They kiss at the stove.”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

Ruby huffed. “Do you like like her?”

Paige stepped forward, hands gently slowing the swing. “Yeah, kiddo. I do.”

Azzi joined her, one hand brushing Paige’s back.

Ruby turned to Azzi. “You like like Paigey?”

Azzi crouched beside her and nodded. “I really do.”

Ruby squinted, then broke into a wide grin. “Okay.”

Paige blinked. “Just okay?”

“You can come more,” Ruby declared. “For cartoons. And juice boxes. And sleepovers. Like Grandma.”

Paige looked at Azzi. Azzi looked like she was simultaneously trying not to cry and trying not to laugh.

“Deal,” Paige said solemnly.

Ruby nodded, satisfied. “Sparklehorn says yes too.”

Paige stood slowly, pressing her hands to her thighs like the gravity of that moment had just sunk in. Azzi reached out and took her hand.

“Well,” Paige said. “I guess we’re official now.”

Azzi grinned. “Ruby approved.”

They spent the rest of the morning in that small corner of the world, pushing swings, chasing Ruby through patches of grass, laughing until their sides hurt. Paige helped Ruby climb the jungle gym. Azzi tied her shoelaces twice. Sparklehorn was lost and found at least three times.

No one cared about time. Or noise. They were just there, in the honest sunlight, wrapped in the messy, chaotic, ridiculous joy of being wanted by someone small, and by each other.

--------------------

The car rolled to a gentle stop in front of Paige’s dorm, tires crunching lightly over the gravel edge. Campus had fully woken up, students walking in clumps across the quad, earbuds in, lattes balanced in tired hands, music drifting from somewhere overhead in lazy bursts. The sun had climbed higher, warm but not overbearing, the kind of spring afternoon that made you believe in second chances.

The windows were down. Paige’s arm rested out the passenger side, fingers lazily trailing against the frame. She’d peeled off Azzi’s hoodie during the drive, now sitting in just her oversized white shirt, ponytail loose, cheeks pink from the sun and the lingering high of too much laughing.

In the backseat, Ruby was deep in a conversation with Sparklehorn about whether or not the unicorn could learn to drive.

“She has magic horn,” Ruby insisted. “So maybe she just... zaps the car.”

Azzi chuckled from the driver’s seat. “You’re not helping her case.”

Paige turned toward them, arm slung over the headrest, watching Ruby with the kind of softness she used to reserve for no one. “She’s definitely not getting a license,” she said. “I’ve seen how she handles corners.”

“You mean you,” Azzi murmured.

“I’m an excellent corner,” Paige replied.

Azzi sat quietly behind the wheel, her eyes forward but distant. Her hand had been resting in Paige’s lap the whole ride back, fingers gently tapping, not nervous, not impatient, just needing contact. Paige hadn’t let go once.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Paige said softly, as much to herself as to Azzi.

Azzi nodded, but it didn’t feel settled. “Yeah. She’s just… never had both of us gone before. Not overnight.”

“I know.” Paige squeezed her hand gently. “She’s with your parents. She’ll be spoiled rotten.”

“She’ll miss us anyway.”

There was a pause. Ruby was humming now, legs swinging off the booster seat, Sparklehorn tucked into the corner like a co-pilot.

Azzi pulled into park. The engine hummed low beneath them. Paige unbuckled and turned to the backseat, where Ruby had just strapped Sparklehorn into the booster above her like a responsible guardian.

“You sure she won’t miss me too much?” Paige asked, mock-serious.

“She said you have to come back,” Ruby answered, swinging her legs. “For ‘nicorn show. And cookie breakfast.”

“She’s setting the schedule now,” Azzi said dryly.

Paige grinned and leaned in toward Azzi, fingers brushing her thigh. “Sounds like marriage in Ruby’s world.”

Azzi flushed but didn’t look away. “Guess we’re committed, then.”

Paige kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or overly careful, just steady. Warm. The kind of kiss that said thank you for this morning, for trusting me, for not pulling away. When they parted, her smile lingered.

“I love you,” she said softly.

A sharp clap echoed from the backseat.

Both of them turned.

Ruby was clapping enthusiastically, tiny hands slapping together with the determination of a toddler who knew when something deserved celebration. “GOOD JOB, PAIGEY!”

Paige laughed, head dropping forward into Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi groaned and hid her face behind one hand.

“That’s the first time I’ve been publicly applauded for kissing someone,” Paige mumbled.

Ruby just beamed. “More kiss later?”

“Let’s take it one Sparklehorn-sanctioned event at a time,” Paige said, pushing open her door.

She rounded the back of the car and opened Ruby’s side, crouching down beside her.

“You go now?” Ruby asked, already pouting a little.

Paige nodded. “Just for a bit.”

“You come back?”

Paige held out her pinky. “I promise.”

Ruby looped hers around Paige’s without hesitation. “Bring cookie?”

“Triple chip.”

Ruby gasped, like that was still the most elite concept on Earth. “Sparklehorn say you best grown-up.”

Paige leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Ruby.”

“Love you too,” Ruby whispered, shy now. Like she understood how big those words could be.

Paige closed the door carefully and walked back around to the driver’s side. Azzi had rolled the window down, one elbow propped on the ledge, hand open.

Paige leaned in, their foreheads brushing. “You okay?”

Azzi nodded, but Paige could see it in her eyes, the low simmer of sadness she always got before a separation, even short ones. “I will be.”

Paige leaned in and kissed her again, just once. It didn’t need to be more than that.

Then she stepped back, gave a final wave to Ruby through the glass, and jogged up the stairs two at a time, hoodie slung over one shoulder, heart doing wild things behind her ribs.

In the car, Ruby tapped Azzi’s arm. “Mama?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I think we got a Paigey now.”

Azzi just smiled. “Yeah. I think we do.”

They pulled away from the curb slowly, the dorm growing smaller in the rearview, the afternoon light catching in Ruby’s curls, in the shimmer of Sparklehorn’s horn, in the quiet smile that hadn’t left Azzi’s face since breakfast.

--------------------

Paige was brushing her teeth when her phone buzzed across the desk.

Incoming FaceTime: Azzi

She spat quickly into the sink, wiped her mouth on the sleeve of the same hoodie she'd worn all day, Azzi’s, still smelling faintly like her shampoo and padded barefoot across the room to answer.

Azzi’s face filled the screen, lit by soft afternoon sunlight streaming in through a window behind her. Her curls were pulled into a loose bun, and the familiar warm-toned walls of her living room were visible in the background. She was sitting on the couch with Ruby half in her lap, snack cup in hand, Sparklehorn wedged against her side.

“Hey,” Azzi said, her voice warm, low. “You decent?”

“Depends who’s asking,” Paige replied, sinking onto her bed and propping the phone against her knees.

Azzi rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

Before Paige could reply, a little face popped into the frame. Ruby’s cheeks were flushed from play, curls sticking in every direction. She was already clutching Sparklehorn like a prized jewel, her tiny mouth spreading into a huge grin the second she saw Paige.

“PAIGEY!” she squealed, bouncing once before settling back down.

Paige beamed. “Hey, kiddo. Did you miss me already?”

Ruby nodded like it was obvious. “Mama say you bring cookies next time.”

“She’s not wrong,” Paige said. “And not just any cookies. Triple chip.”

Ruby gasped, eyes wide.

Azzi nudged her gently. “Didn’t you have a special request for Paigey?”

Ruby sat up straight like she’d been called to deliver a royal decree. “You tell story.”

Paige blinked. “Right now?”

Ruby nodded with full post-nap energy. “Good one.”

“No pressure,” Azzi added, clearly enjoying this.

Paige shifted until she was cross-legged, the phone angled to catch her face better. “Okay. One afternoon story. But it has to be approved by Sparklehorn.”

Ruby tilted her head down to the plush unicorn, then looked back. “She say yes.”

Paige took a dramatic breath and began, already smiling. “Once upon a time, in the glitter-covered kingdom of Marshmallow Mountain, there lived a fearless unicorn warrior named Sparklehorn…”

Ruby’s eyes went wide instantly. She gasped and giggled in all the right places, interrupting with frequent corrections: “No! Pancake the Narwhal has three horns now!” and “Sparklehorn would never wear pink boots.” Paige rolled with each note like a seasoned improv actor.

By the time Sparklehorn had saved the kingdom from a cookie volcano and flown away on a jellybean jetpack, Ruby was sprawled across Azzi’s lap, giggling between handfuls of dry cereal.

“More tomorrow?” Paige asked, her voice softening.

Ruby nodded, her curls flopping gently. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Paige whispered.

“Okay. You still come later?”

Paige smiled. “Definitely.”

Azzi shifted the phone in her hand and stood, walking slowly into the hallway while Ruby started singing softly to Sparklehorn behind her. The door clicked shut with that soft kind of finality that always made Paige’s chest flutter.

Now it was just the two of them.

Azzi leaned against the wall, eyes warm, voice lower. “You’re really good with her.”

“I care about her,” Paige said simply. “And about you.”

Azzi searched her face. “I know. You don’t have to keep proving it.”

“I want to.” Paige sat up straighter, the warmth from earlier still humming in her chest. “And I was thinking…”

She hesitated for a second, not out of doubt, just to find the right words. “I want to get to know your parents better. Like really.”

Azzi blinked, not expecting that.

“I just… I’ve done everything backward,” Paige said, rubbing her hand across the back of her neck. “I showed up drunk in the middle of the night, basically got adopted by Ruby before I even had a proper conversation with your mum and dad.”

Azzi laughed softly, covering her mouth.

“I don’t want to be just the girl you’re seeing. I want to be the girl who shows up,” Paige said, more serious now. “So… I thought maybe tonight? Dinner? Somewhere casual. Not fancy. Just us and your parents and Ruby. I’ll buy.”

Azzi stared at her for a beat. Then her expression softened into something Paige couldn’t quite name, like being seen in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to want.

“You want to take my parents to dinner?” she asked slowly, not mocking, just genuinely trying to wrap her head around it.

“I want them to know I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi let out a breath, more emotion in it than either of them had expected. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Paige said. “That’s why I want to.”

There was a long pause, not heavy, just full.

Then Azzi nodded, a small smile curving at the edges of her mouth. “Okay.”

Paige perked up. “Yeah?”

“They’re gonna ask you about every game you’ve ever played since you were twelve,” Azzi warned.

“Bring it on.”

“They’re gonna grill you about nutrition.”

“I’ll lie convincingly.”

Azzi laughed. “Okay. I’ll tell them.”

“Pick somewhere good,” Paige added, eyes twinkling. “And let me pay. I’m trying to impress my in-laws.”

Azzi gave her a look, one brow raised. “You’re gonna make me blush on FaceTime.”

“Good. You look cute when you blush.”

Azzi covered the camera with her hand for a second, then peeked out again. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, I do.”

Paige’s smile stretched all the way up into her eyes. “Text me the place?”

Azzi nodded. “See you soon.”

“Bye, baby.”

Azzi tilted her head, soft and sure. “Bye, Paigey.”

The screen went dark, and Paige just sat there for a moment, phone resting against her chest, a soft smile still pulling at her lips. Her dorm room didn’t feel so cold anymore. And for the first time in a long time, “family dinner” didn’t feel like something to dread.

It felt like something she was walking toward. On purpose.

--------------------

The restaurant was the kind of place with warm lights and wooden booths that made everything feel quieter, more important. Napkins were folded into perfect triangles, soft music played overhead, and the menu was handwritten in white chalk on a board near the door.

Paige had arrived ten minutes early.

She sat at the booth the host had led her to, near the back, next to a window, shifting slightly in her seat. Her white knit shirt was neatly tucked into wide-legged jeans, her Jordans clean, her fingers tapping anxiously on the table.

When the door opened, she turned without thinking.

Ruby came flying in first, sneakers lighting up with every step, curls bouncing, Sparklehorn flailing by one leg.

“PAIGEY!”

Paige stood, just in time to catch her as she launched.

“You came!” Ruby declared, squeezing Paige’s neck with one sticky hand.

“Told you I would,” Paige said, lifting her gently and spinning her once. “You look very sparkly.”

“She in her gala wear,” Azzi muttered, unzipping her jacket as she reached them, her curls pulled back in a clip. “Sparklehorn chose the outfit.”

“She say pink make me fast,” Ruby added seriously.

“Well then,” Paige said, adjusting her hold. “Can’t argue with magic logic.”

Azzi smiled. “You look good,” she said, eyes lingering.

“So do you,” Paige said back, quiet. “Really good.”

Behind them, Katie and Tim approached. Katie greeted Paige with a calm, steady nod.

“Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Paige said, shaking her hand.

Tim clapped a hand on her shoulder in greeting. “Nice to see you vertical this time.”

Azzi groaned. “Dad...”

“I’m being friendly,” he said, holding up both hands.

They followed the host to the booth. Ruby slid in first, Sparklehorn placed reverently beside her, then Paige. Azzi joined them, and across the table, Katie and Tim settled in.

Menus were handed out. Ruby immediately began pointing to every illustration on the kids’ menu, narrating like a tour guide.

Paige leaned in, tilting the menu toward them. “Alright, let’s see. We’ve got nuggets, grilled cheese, mac and cheese…”

Ruby squinted. “Da twisty one. I want that.”

“Swirls, not elbows?”

Ruby nodded solemnly. “Elbows taste weird. Bows too.”

Paige tapped the swirl illustration. “You wanna share it with me?”

Ruby looked up, blinking. “You eat swirly too?”

“I love swirly.”

Ruby beamed. “’Kay. But you no get juice.”

Azzi choked on her water.

“Fair trade,” Paige said seriously. “You get juice privileges. I get noodles.”

“Mac and cheese it is,” Katie said, flipping her menu. “We’ve achieved peace.”

Tim looked over his own menu. “I’m thinking steak. Safe, strong, can’t go wrong.”

“You sound like a commercial,” Azzi said.

“Paige?” Katie asked. “You still deciding?”

“I’m going in on mac and cheese with Ruby,” Paige said, glancing down at the small girl beside her. “Extra swirl, if that’s a thing.”

“You’re matching the toddler?” Tim raised an eyebrow.

“Gotta earn my seat,” Paige replied.

“Very exclusive club,” Katie said.

“She tell good stories,” Ruby added suddenly. “Funny voices. Lava monster.”

Tim turned to her. “Do you now?”

Azzi held up a warning hand. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Tim grinned. “It’s my duty.”

Once the waiter left, drinks were poured, and Ruby immediately tried to get Sparklehorn to sip her lemonade.

Then Tim leaned forward. “Alright, Paige. I’ve got a question for you.”

Azzi tensed beside her. “Dad—”

“I’m just doing the responsible parent thing,” Tim said. “You’ve got fans, scouts, a highlight reel a mile long. But Azzi and Ruby? They’re not temporary. They’re the long game. So I gotta ask, what’s your plan here?”

Paige blinked once, then smiled. “No pressure, huh?”

“Just one dad to another fake dad,” Tim said, shrugging.

Azzi groaned. “Oh my god.”

But Paige didn’t look away. “I want to be here. For them. I know it’s not easy. I know it won’t always be simple. But I’m not showing up just when it’s convenient.”

Tim studied her. “So what’s the goal?”

Paige glanced down at Ruby, who was now trying to feed Sparklehorn a straw.

“To build something that matters,” she said simply. “To make space for them in everything. Basketball included.”

Azzi turned slowly to look at her, not surprised, exactly. Just full. Completely seen.

Tim finally leaned back and nodded once. “Good answer.”

“I told you she’s good at talking,” Ruby whispered, like it was confidential.

“Wait until she does the Sparklehorn voice,” Azzi muttered.

Tim grinned. “Don’t tease me with a promise like that.”

“I will walk out of here,” Azzi warned.

“Paaaigey,” Ruby sing-songed. “Do it. Lava monster one.”

Paige sighed dramatically, then dropped her voice low and raspy. “You will never escape, Sparklehorn! Not unless you find... the triple chip cookie key!”

Ruby giggled so hard she hiccuped. Azzi dropped her forehead to the table.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” she murmured.

“You love it,” Paige whispered, brushing her knee under the table.

Azzi’s hand found hers beneath the edge of the booth and laced their fingers quietly.

They ate slowly. Ruby picked at noodles and shared her fries with Sparklehorn. Azzi reached over to steal one off Paige’s plate, and Paige didn’t complain. Katie asked about practice. Tim asked about Paige’s last game against Notre Dame and grinned when Paige said, “Azzi lit it up. I just stayed out of her way.”

By the time dessert arrived, Ruby had melted sideways against Paige’s arm, Sparklehorn tucked between them like a warm pillow.

“She’s done,” Azzi said softly, brushing a curl from Ruby’s cheek.

Azzi leaned close to Paige and murmured, “You’re gonna have to carry her out of here.”

Paige looked down at the half-asleep girl in her arms and smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Azzi pressed her lips to Paige’s shoulder. Quick. Hidden. Enough.

And across the table, Katie saw it. So did Tim.

And neither of them said a word.

--------------------

While Azzi gently cleaned Ruby’s hands with a wipe, Paige slid out of the booth and crossed quietly to the front counter. The host blinked in surprise as she approached.

“Hi, can I close out the check?” Paige asked.

He checked the table number. “Sure, just you?”

“All of us,” Paige said. “Five total.”

She handed over her card without fanfare.

Back at the table, Tim was lifting Ruby’s shoes off the floor when he paused. “Wait…. did you already pay?”

Paige returned a second later, tucking her receipt into her pocket like it was nothing. “Yeah.”

Katie gave her a sharp look, not annoyed, just surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Paige said simply. “But I wanted to.”

Tim smiled slowly. “Now you’ve really gone and ruined our next excuse to make you come back.”

Paige shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to keep showing up anyway.”

Azzi stood and rolled her eyes, though there was zero heat in it. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it,” Paige said under her breath, grabbing Sparklehorn as Ruby blinked up at her.

“I do,” Azzi muttered, adjusting her jacket. “Unfortunately.”

Paige lifted Ruby into her arms, cradling her gently, Sparklehorn tucked under her chin.

“She’s heavier than she looks,” Paige muttered, adjusting her grip.

“That’s all personality,” Azzi said.

--------------------

Outside, the night was cool but not biting, just enough chill to make Ruby nuzzle deeper into Paige’s shoulder as they walked toward the car. Her little arms wrapped around Paige’s neck, Sparklehorn smooshed between them like a glittery security blanket.

Azzi walked a step behind, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, watching the way Paige adjusted Ruby’s weight with practiced care, one arm securely under her legs, the other wrapped around her back.

“You do this a lot,” Azzi murmured once they reached the curb.

“Only for VIPs,” Paige said, glancing over.

Katie opened the back door while Tim moved to buckle Ruby’s seatbelt, but Ruby barely stirred. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, breath soft. When Paige leaned in to settle her into the booster seat, she felt little fingers tug at her shirt.

“You go?” Ruby mumbled, voice slurred with sleep.

“Just for a bit,” Paige whispered. “But I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Ruby nodded once, then sagged back against Sparklehorn, already half gone again.

Katie closed the door with a soft click. “Thank you for tonight.”

Paige smiled, brushing her hands off on her jeans. “Thank you for letting me be part of it.”

Tim reached out, giving her a pat on the shoulder. “You’re alright, Bueckers.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to anyone,” Azzi muttered.

“Don’t make it weird,” Tim said, but he was grinning.

Katie leaned in for a hug, firm, real, no hesitation this time. “We’ll see you soon.”

Paige nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Tim and Katie moved toward the front of the car, giving them space.

--------------------

Azzi was waiting a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, watching the whole thing with eyes that hadn’t stopped softening since dessert. Paige walked to her, stopping just out of reach. They were still close enough to be seen, but far enough away to feel like it was just them.

“We leave early,” Paige said gently. “You packed?”

Azzi nodded. “Mostly.”

“You okay?” Paige asked.

Azzi shrugged, glancing back at the car. “I hate leaving her.”

“I know,” Paige said. “I do too.”

Azzi stepped forward, their foreheads meeting easily in the space between. “She’ll be fine. It’s just two nights.”

“But it’s the first time this season,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. She just let her fingers find Paige’s and held on tight.

“We’ll FaceTime,” Paige murmured. “Every night.”

Azzi nodded. “You tell the stories. I’ll hold the phone.”

Azzi quietly mentioned. “You didn’t have to pay, you know.”

“I wanted to.”

Azzi looked up at her, not teasing now, just full of something soft and open. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“I told you,” Paige said, leaning in. “I’m all in.”

Azzi let her eyes fall closed. “Good. Because I think we’re all in too.”

Paige kissed her, slow, sure, a quiet press that didn’t need an audience. Just hers.

When they pulled apart, Azzi was still close enough that Paige could feel the warmth of her breath.

“I’ll text you when I’m back,” Paige said.

Azzi nodded. “You better.”

Paige backed up a few steps, hands still tucked in her pockets, then gave a little wave. Katie and Tim were already in the front seats. Ruby was asleep, Sparklehorn visible in the window like a sentry.

Azzi opened the passenger door but paused before climbing in. “Hey, Paigey?”

Paige looked back.

“You’re officially invited to all future swirly mac and cheese events.”

Paige laughed. “It’s an honour.”

She watched the taillights fade as the car pulled away, her chest full in a way that didn’t feel sharp anymore. Just right.

Inside the car, the hum of the engine filled the silence. Ruby snored quietly in the back, Sparklehorn clutched like a lifeline.

Katie glanced toward Tim, then into the rearview mirror at her daughter.

“She’s in love with that girl,” she said.

Tim nodded. “And that girl loves her back.”

“She’s steady,” Katie added. “Grounded. Thoughtful. I wasn’t sure at first, but… she means it.”

Tim smiled faintly, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Then Azzi’s finally got someone who sees her the way we do.”

[slattlicker]

can u do one where maybe schlatt or reader dont see eachother for a while (maybe like a month or so, one is on a bussines trip maybe schlatt recording something in japan again or whatever u get the point) and in the meanwhile reader gets her nips pierced and donesz tell him and when they reunite again they do the woohoo and schlatt goes feral over them

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * return of the rack ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: your long-distance boyfriend finally comes home. he’s jetlagged, lovesick, and touch-starved—and you’ve been hiding something from him. but when he finds out? it’s over for both of you. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the anon who sent me that amazing piercing reveal request—this one’s for you ♡ thank you for such a juicy prompt!! i’m just a little english major with no self-control. hope this hits everything you wanted.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · long-distance reunion · emotional sex · tit worship · oral fixation · titfucking · praise-heavy filth · funny, filthy, tender

✧✧✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react...we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

you’ve been trying to take the perfect photo for almost forty-five minutes.

not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

your phone’s propped against your dresser mirror with a half-dead candle and your old student id keeping it steady. the lighting in your room is this golden kind of lazy—just late enough in the day to paint everything amber, just warm enough to highlight the soft swell of your chest and the barely-there glint of silver beneath your shirt.

you tug the tank top down again. carefully. slowly.

it’s one of those old sleep shirts, kind of loose, kind of sheer—the kind you only wear when you’re feeling soft and a little scandalous in private. and right now? it's doing exactly what you need it to: showing just enough, but not everything. you lean forward slightly, testing how the fabric stretches, how visible the piercings are when you breathe out—

yeah. you snap the pic.

and immediately toss your phone onto the bed with a quiet, “jesus christ.”

the nerves are stupid. schlatt’s your boyfriend. he’s literally seen you shirtless. he's had your boobs in his mouth. he’s buried his face between your thighs more times than you can count. but this?

this feels different.

maybe it’s because you did it while he was gone. maybe it’s because it was spontaneous. impulsive. a little selfish in the best way. he’d only been gone a week when the idea hit you like a train—like something small and bold and kind of reckless that you needed to do for yourself.

you remember walking into that piercing studio like you weren’t shaking the whole time. you remember gripping the sides of the chair so hard your knuckles ached. you remember the piercer’s gloves and the clamp and the—

okay. no. you’re not reliving it. you’re healed now. mostly. you can touch them now, at least, and you do—gently—fingertips ghosting over the metal like they’re something precious.

they're still so new.

your first piercings, even. not a single earring to your name, but now you’ve got twin bars sitting proud in your chest like little secrets.

and maybe that’s what makes your stomach twist.

you didn’t tell him. you wanted to. so many times. every phone call, every stupid “i miss you” text with the heart emoji that made you melt. but the words just wouldn’t come out. you wanted to see his face when he found out. you wanted to feel it—the surprise, the want, the slow unraveling of him going feral in real time.

you wanted him to react.

so now you’re taking pictures. for yourself, mostly. just to see what you look like. to test your angles. to pretend, maybe, that you’d have the guts to send one. eventually.

another photo. this time lying on your back, shirt off, hair a little messy, hand ghosting over your ribs. the bars peek out just enough to catch the light.

you look good. you look hot, actually.

and that’s when the facetime rings.

incoming call: schlatt ♡

you let out the loudest full-body gasp known to man, scrambling for the shirt you just peeled off. your phone nearly topples off the bed. you answer, breathless.

his face fills the screen—messy curls under a hoodie, earbuds in, smile lazy.

“hey, baby.”

your heart is racing. “h-hi—hi. hi. what’s up?”

he tilts his head. “why do you look all flushed?”

you whip the blanket over yourself like a sinner in church. “i don’t—what? no. it’s hot in here.”

he grins, suspicious. “mhm. right.”

you glance around, looking for a distraction, anything. and then his voice cuts in again—so casual, like it doesn’t make your chest ache.

“think you can pick me up from the airport in like… two hours?”

you blink. “wait. what? you’re—you’re coming home today?!”

he nods. “figured i’d surprise you.”

he pauses, then leans a little closer to the screen.

“you miss me or what?”

your brain is screaming. your nipples definitely throb. and you’re sitting here, clutching a blanket like a victorian widow, pretending like you weren’t just arching for your own camera three minutes ago.

“…yeah,” you say. “i missed you.”

✧ ✧ ✧

you’re pacing by baggage claim, heart hammering, lips bitten raw, and currently being smothered alive by the most padded, over-engineered bra victoria ever refused to admit was a war crime.

you hadn’t worn this one in months. maybe years. it was a last-minute decision, panicked and breathless, the second you started imagining all the ways schlatt might react. the teasing. the staring.

you chickened out. and now?

you’re wearing a bra that might as well be classified as personal armor.

it’s one of those ridiculous contraptions with thick molded cups that force your boobs into a shape not found in nature. the kind with wire that digs into your ribs if you so much as exhale wrong. the kind that lifts, separates, compresses, confuses the populace. you feel like your chest is being served on a tray.

and yeah. you look obscenely stacked proportionally. like “local woman found toppling over in terminal c” kind of stacked. boobs up to your throat. they bounce when you breathe. your tank top is straining like it’s fighting for its life.

you don’t even look like you. you look like someone trying to distract airport security.

and of course, that’s exactly what schlatt sees first.

he’s walking out of the gate like a damn slow-motion movie—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little messy, hoodie pushed back, that familiar tired grin spreading across his face the second he spots you.

“there’s my girl.”

your breath catches. your limbs move before your brain can. you run to him, full-speed, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

the hug is immediate and full-bodied, like instinct. he drops his bag with a soft oof and wraps his arms around you with the force of someone who’s been waiting weeks to do this. his hoodie smells like plane air and cologne and cheap ramen and him. you bury your face into his chest, letting your whole body melt into him.

“missed you so fucking much,” he mumbles into your hair. “jesus, you feel good.”

you smile into his hoodie, voice muffled. “missed you more.”

it’s warm. familiar. a little unreal. he sways with you, just slightly, like it’s muscle memory. and for a few long seconds, there’s no airport. no gate. no anxiety gnawing at your ribs. just him. just this.

and then—he pulls back a little.

just enough to look at you.

his hands stay anchored to your waist. his eyes scan your face like he’s checking for damage, soaking you in like a man starved. there’s something so soft in the way he looks at you—lids a little heavy, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to break the moment.

then his eyes drop.

they linger. and linger. and then…

they squint.

“…what the fuck happened to your tits?”

you slap his arm. “schlatt—!”

“no, i’m serious. you been eatin’ whole cows while i was gone? you get a boob job?”

you laugh—sputter, really—shoving him a little while heat climbs up your neck. “it’s the bra, jesus. can you be normal for like five seconds?”

“i am being normal,” he mutters, eyeing your chest again. “it's just that you weren’t packin’ double m cups when i left.”

“it’s just…” you fidget, gripping your bag strap. “i didn’t know how you’d react…we’ll talk about it at home, okay?”

he raises an eyebrow.

“so you did do somethin’. uh huh. yeah. i knew it.”

he grabs his duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leans close, voice low and just the slightest bit smug:

“gonna get it outta you one way or another, sweetheart.”

and he does not let it go the entire walk to the car.

✧ ✧ ✧

the door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

his mouth is on yours, greedy and hot and so fucking needy it makes your knees buckle. you giggle into it—already breathless—as he walks you backward, one hand still gripping his duffel and the other sliding down your back like he’s checking if you’re still real.

“didn’t think i’d be gone long enough to forget how you taste,” he murmurs between kisses, voice all low heat and gravel.

“you’re ridiculous,” you breathe, clutching at his hoodie. “you’re the one who ran off to japan.”

“and you’re the one who picked me up looking like that. you knew what you were doing.”

you didn’t, not really, but you’re not exactly complaining.

he drops the bag somewhere behind you. kicks the door the rest of the way shut with his heel. you barely have time to register the living room before your back is pressed to the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, his mouth dragging down your jaw.

“whole car ride, babe,” he mutters against your skin, “i was sittin’ there just tryna breathe...relax after my long ass flight, and you’re over there yelling at the guy in front of us like your tits aren't beeping the horn for you. what was i supposed to do?”

your laugh turns into a gasp when his hands find your hips, yanking you closer.

you should stop. you meant to stop. meant to say something. to ease him into it gently. but he’s kissing you again, hard, one hand already sliding under your shirt—and you forget. you completely forget.

because it’s just him. home. warm. wanting. and it feels so good to be wanted.

he breaks the kiss just long enough to tug your shirt off.

“c’mere. let me get this armor off you.”

his fingers fumble at your back—expertly, annoyingly fast—and with one practiced flick, the bra gives way.

he peels it off.

and then he freezes.

you blink up at him, chest rising and falling, lips kiss-swollen and barely able to catch your breath.

“schlatt?”

he’s just staring.

then slowly—like he’s afraid to jinx it—he cups one breast in his hand. runs his thumb over the metal.

“…no. fucking. way.”

oh.

oh fuck.

“i forgot,” you blurt, eyes wide. “i meant to—schlatt, i meant to tell you—”

but he doesn’t even hear you.

his pupils blow wide. his hand tightens on your waist. he’s grinning, borderline maniacal, voice suddenly raspier than it has any right to be.

“you got your nipples pierced,” he says, half-laughing. “you went and did this while i was gone? and didn’t tell me?”

“i was nervous!” you squeak.

“you were nervous?? baby, i’m—i’m losing my fucking mind right now.”

and then he’s on you.

mouth on your chest, fingers everywhere, muttering curses and praise and wild, unhinged things like “how the fuck do you expect me to be normal ever again,” and “you want me to die, don’t you.”

he doesn’t even wait.

his mouth is on your chest like he’s starving—tongue hot and wet, dragging slow between the piercings before closing around one with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

you gasp—sharp and shaky—because they’re still sensitive. still a little too new. but god, it feels good. it feels like everything in you tightens at once, toes curling against the floor, thighs squeezing around his hips like muscle memory.

you can’t help it. your body knows him. remembers him.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look. really look. his thumb brushes over the barbell, slow, reverent, like he’s not sure it’s real. “you are so fucking hot. i can’t—i literally can’t believe you did this. how the fuck did i land you.”

you can’t think of a single coherent word, let alone say one.

your chest feels like it’s glowing under his hand. every nerve from collarbone to navel lights up like electricity, sharp and dizzying and hungry. and then—your back hits the couch.

you barely realize he’s walked you there. you just know you’re sitting now, breath punched out of you, and he’s already dragging your leggings off—voice low and shaky and nothing like the cocky tone he usually has when he teases you.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, like he’s scolding himself. like he’s pacing in his own head. “so fuckin’ perfect. brand new tits for me and you didn’t even tell me? shit, baby—i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, rough palms sliding over skin like he needs to memorize every inch before it slips away again. like he doesn’t trust that you’re really here.

you open your mouth to say something. anything. but then his hand cups between your legs and your whole body jumps.

you’re soaked.

you feel embarrassingly exposed—slick and warm and pulsing, thighs trembling with how much you’ve missed this. him. the way he touches you like he can’t help it. like you’re the only thing that exists.

“fuckin’ missed this,” he says, and it’s not a line. it’s not dirty talk. it’s just true.

you nod, because you’re the same. you missed this so much it ached. you slept in his old t-shirts and reread your text threads and counted days until he was back. and now he’s here. and he’s hard. and he’s pushing his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock and you swear your lungs stop working.

you reach for him.

he catches your wrist. not to stop you—but to kiss it.

soft. stupidly soft.

and then he’s pushing into you.

you moan—loud, desperate, your head falling back with a dull thud against the cushions as he sinks in deep, all at once. there’s no teasing. no slow adjustment. it’s just full-body contact, heat against heat, everything you’ve been starving for crashing into place in one sharp, overwhelming moment.

you forgot how good he feels. thick and hot and perfect, pressed flush against your hips with a groan that curls through your ribs and lives there.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. “you—baby, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

“you’ve been gone,” you breathe, voice cracking like you’ve been holding it in for weeks. “i missed you.”

and he loses it.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, thrusting hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you both. your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, trying to hold him closer, tighter, deeper. you can feel yourself squeezing around him with every thrust, and you know he feels it too by the way his jaw locks and his breathing falls apart.

and then—god,—his hand finds your chest again.

thumb brushing over the piercing, palm warm against your skin.

you gasp. again. high and helpless.

“still sensitive, huh?” he whispers, voice just rough enough to send a shiver down your spine. “bet you touched yourself thinkin’ about me sucking on ’em.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp. “i—I wanted it to be you.”

his hips stutter, eyes snapping open to look at you—something sharp and stunned swimming behind the want.

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re gonna make me cum so fast, baby.”

and for a second, you think he might.

but then—he swallows. hard. sets his jaw like he’s fighting with himself.

and you watch it—watch him choose not to let go. not yet.

he’s breathing like he’s been running, chest rising and falling fast against yours, sweat starting to bead at his temples. but his pace slows, just barely—enough to make every thrust feel deeper. heavier. drawn out like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit together.

“i missed you so much,” he says, voice rough and uneven. “you don’t—you don’t fuckin’ know.”

you do. god, you do. it’s all you’ve felt since he walked through the airport gate—like your body had been waiting without you, aching in your bones and your blood and your fingertips.

you open your mouth to say it. to say me too, or i love you, or something that doesn’t make your throat feel like it’s about to close.

but then he rolls his hips—just right—and your voice breaks on a moan instead.

he groans. low, desperate.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking good.”

your legs tighten around him, body arching into his, fingers gripping at his shoulder like he’s all that’s holding you up. and maybe he is.

he slides his hand between you—presses his palm flat over your chest again, thumb tracing your piercing in slow, lazy circles like he knows exactly what it does to you now.

and it’s too much.

you’re already so full. already so close. and the added friction, the heat, the thrill of being seen like this—laid out and shaking and known in this way—it’s all stacking on top of itself in your stomach, hot and heavy and tight.

“schlatt—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he looks at you. really looks. and his face softens.

“i got you,” he murmurs. “just let go. i’ve got you.”

and you do.

you come with a cry—loud and open and shameless, your whole body tensing, then breaking. it rips through you like a snapped wire—sharp and fast and blinding, curling your toes and flattening your spine against the couch as your hands clutch at him for dear life.

and he feels it.

he lets out the most wrecked groan against your throat, holding you through it—letting you ride it out with slow, shallow thrusts as your body jerks around him in waves.

you’re gasping. whimpering. blinking hard against the blur in your eyes.

“fuck, fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice coming apart. “you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

your muscles twitch. your thighs are still shaking. your whole body is buzzing with the kind of heat that leaves you boneless and ruined.

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers, all hoarse and reverent. “you did so good. so fuckin’ good for me.”

and you believe it. even if your brain is barely working.

you’re so gone, you don’t realize he’s pulled out until his cum-slick cock presses against your stomach, twitching in his hand.

you blink at him. still breathless. still warm and open and raw.

he’s staring at your chest again.

then—quietly, still panting—he says:

“lemme cum on ’em.”

your stomach flips.

“wha…?” you manage.

he swallows. nods, like he’s reassuring himself. like he’s asking permission, even as his hand keeps moving around the base of his cock.

“your tits,” he says, eyes locked on the piercings. “lemme fuck ’em, baby. i gotta. i have to. please?”

and you—you don’t think. you just nod.

he kisses you, fast and crooked, missing your mouth a little like he can’t think straight anymore. like he needs to touch every part of you to stay grounded.

“fuck—thank you,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “fuckin’—thank you.”

you barely process him moving. you’re too loose-limbed and blinking slow to react. he kneels back, pulling you with him gently until you’re upright, your spine brushing the back of the couch, thighs still parted lazily across the cushions.

your chest rises and falls. your skin’s still flushed from the orgasm. and your tits—

they’re still shining. spit-slick from his mouth, flushed and sensitive, the tiny metal bars glinting in the low light like jewelry.

you glance down and see them like he’s seeing them.

and yeah.

you’d wanna fuck ’em too.

“press ’em together for me,” he says, rough. “please, baby. lemme—lemme see it.”

his voice breaks on that last part, and it does something to you. you bring your hands up, slow, still shaking slightly, and squeeze your breasts together between your palms.

you can feel the cool metal of the bars press into the softness of your skin. can feel the sweat, the heat, the need.

he groans—loud. hand stroking himself at the sight, chest flushed, eyes wide and ravenous.

“jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re—you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

he shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right there, cock in hand, flushed and glistening, already leaking at the tip. his fingers tremble as he slots himself between the valley you’ve made, pressing into the warmth of your skin with a shuddering inhale.

“ohhh my god.”

he thrusts once—just once—and it punches a sound out of both of you.

the slick slide of him between your tits is obscene. hot. messy. you can feel every ridge of him drag over the swell of your chest, the way his tip nudges the curve of your collarbone. the way the piercings barely catch on the motion.

he’s already losing rhythm.

“you’re so hot,” he gasps. “you’re so fucking hot. i’ve been thinkin’ about you like this the whole fuckin’ trip—shit—baby—”

you just nod. can’t speak. can’t look away.

his hand joins yours, squeezing around the outside of your tits, fucking up into the softness like he needs it. like he wants to burn the image of it into his skull.

his eyes flicker—up, down, back to your chest, your face, the piercings again.

“gonna cum,” he pants. “gonna—fuck—lemme cum on ’em, please. fuckin’ lemme—lemme—”

“yeah?” you breathe, voice wrecked and sticky-sweet. “you want these that bad, baby?”

your thumbs flick over the barbells as you squeeze your tits tighter for him, watching the way his eyes snap to the movement.

“then fucking do it.”

and then he does.

with a shout that comes from deep, he cums hard—thick and hot and everywhere. ropes of it across your chest, your throat, your collarbones, dripping down the piercings like they were made to hold it. he keeps thrusting through it, jerking slightly, riding the last of it out until he’s completely spent, cock twitching between your tits as he collapses forward onto his elbows.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. he’s breathing so hard it rocks you both a little.

you sit there, still holding your tits together, heart hammering, cum cooling on your chest, mouth parted in absolute disbelief at what just happened.

and then—

“...okay,” he pants, hoarse. “next time? warn me if you upgrade your body again. i’m not emotionally prepared for this shit.”

you wheeze out a laugh.

“i’ll consider it.”

“consider it strongly. i’m tryin’ to live a long life.”

“you just made a mess on my chest.”

he groans, flops fully onto you, kisses your shoulder like an apology and a thank-you and a “holy shit” all at once.

“worth it.”

[sowerpatch]

idk if this is youre kinda au but could you write about like vampire hunter paige and vampire azzi

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd Summary: By day, Paige is a UConn basketball star. By night, she hunts vampires. It’s a solid system—until a very pretty vampire accidentally bites her, sparks something magical, shows up in her class, and starts hosting trivia nights with annoyingly good hair.

Now Paige is glowing (literally), catching feelings (unfortunately), and maybe falling for the one girl she’s supposed to stake.

Author's note: Nothing is making sense in this lore I created in this story, so I apologize in advance. I hope this is what you're looking for @anon (although I think you had more actions in mind than this mood)

Word Count: 7,122

Paige did not spend four hours in the gym, three hours pretending to do homework, and seventy-nine minutes babysitting a freshman teammate’s DoorDash mishap to end her night in a bar where the floor stuck to her shoes. 

But here she was. Inside a glorified storage closet disguised as a pub, standing under a fluorescent light that flickered like it had beef with everyone present. The air carried equal notes of bleach, wet leather, and regret. A playlist from someone’s cracked iPhone in the back was stuck between two remixes, both of them bad. 

She was supposed to be celebrating a win. Double-double, game-sealing block, high-fives all around. Instead, she’d followed a vampire who looked like he’d just rolled off a Hot Topic clearance rack and ducked through the staff entrance of this disaster with the grace of a brick. 

And now he was gone. Or—no, worse. Still here. Somewhere behind the haze of broken lights and patrons who looked like they were paid not to ask questions. 

Paige edged further in, hand at her side, fingers brushing the stake she kept strapped to her thigh. If anyone asked, it was for athletic therapy purposes. 

She caught a glimpse of him near the back. Blonde. Slouching. Either drunk or pretending to be. Hard to tell with the sunglasses indoors and the ‘I hate sunlight and fun’ trench coat. Classic. 

She didn’t make it ten steps before the entire situation exploded. 

One second, he was lounging. The next, someone threw a glass. Someone else threw a table. Someone howled, though Paige suspected that one was just for dramatic flair. The lights gave up entirely, and chaos filled in the blanks. 

A fight broke out with the kind of coordination usually reserved for flash mobs. Paige dodged an elbow, ducked a chair, spun around to find her guy—only to be shoved, hard, against the bar by a second vampire she hadn’t seen arrive. 

Tall. Snarling. Breath like sour milk and week-old coffee. He hissed something guttural, which Paige assumed wasn’t friendly. 

She reached for her stake. 

Too slow. 

Clawed hands grabbed at her arm. She twisted, tried to drop under, caught a punch to the ribs for her trouble, and then— 

Then someone else intervened. 

A figure moved through the brawl like the choreography had been hers all along. Black coat, fast hands, expression carved from amusement and mild impatience.  

Paige barely registered the blur of motion before she was yanked sideways, spun behind the bar, pressed into the wall with enough force to steal her breath. 

There were fingers on her jaw. Then warmth. Pressure. The tiniest spark of pain. 

And a mouth, very close to her neck. 

Paige blinked, stunned. 

She felt the blood stop. Not in the normal, band-aid way but in the magical, what-the-hell-was-that way. She opened her mouth to object. Or shout. Or flirt. It was unclear. 

The woman stepped back before Paige could pick one. 

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “You were leaking.” 

Paige stared at her.  

The mystery woman.  

Smooth, rich brown skin that caught the light like polished bronze. Dark curls spilled over her shoulders, wild and deliberate, framing a face too striking to forget. High cheekbones, full lips painted in a shade just bold enough to tempt. Her eyes, deep-set and sharp, sparkled with mischief, and when she spoke, there it was—the faintest glint of fang behind that amused smirk.  

Confidence radiated from her like heat, unapologetic and magnetic. 

She looked unbothered. Downright pleased, actually. Like the whole night had gone according to some script only she had read. 

Before Paige could say a word, she turned and walked off, casual as anything, stepping over debris like she had a personal agreement with gravity. 

“Wait—hey! You—” Paige shoved past a stool.  

Too late.  

The woman was gone. Door swinging shut behind her, no footsteps to follow. 

The bartender gave her a side-eye, handed her a napkin, and wordlessly pointed to the counter. There, wedged between a coaster and a half-finished gin and tonic, was a bar receipt. 

Scrawled in black ink, right under a lipstick kiss: 

You’re welcome. Try not to die next time. —A 

Paige stared at the note. 

Then at the lipstick. 

Then at the part of her neck that still tingled. 

She was going to find this girl. She was going to have several words. Probably also feelings. Possibly a restraining order. 

But first, she was going to need a tetanus shot. 

- 

The scanner beeped once, made a concerning clicking noise, and then declared technological defeat by flashing a bright red message across the screen. Paige leaned forward and squinted. 

TEMPORARY CLAIM DETECTED  —Origin: Unregistered | Duration: Uncertain | Aura: Compromised 

Nika, lounging in the battered rolling chair across the room, let out a low whistle and nudged her boot against the desk. “Oh yeah. That’s definitely a bite.” 

“It was barely a bite,” Paige said, rubbing at her neck. “She was just stopping the bleeding. I think.” 

“You think,” Nika repeated, dragging the words out like she was tasting them. “So, you let a vampire gnaw on you, and now the system thinks you’re someone’s magical chew toy. Amazing.” 

“I didn’t let her,” Paige snapped. “I was busy not dying.” 

“Well, mission accomplished. You’re alive. And marked. Slightly glowing. Might attract raccoons.” 

Paige gave her a look. “You’re not helpful.” 

“I’m emotionally supportive,” Nika said, spinning halfway in her chair. “This is what emotional support looks like.” 

Paige pointed at the screen. “That thing says it’s temporary. So, it’ll fade. Eventually.” 

“Sure. Could be days. Could be decades. Depends on the vampire.” Nika leaned over and squinted at Paige’s wrist, where a faint shimmer was curling under her skin like lazy gold smoke. “Who was it, anyway? The one with the mouth?” 

“No idea. Black coat, combat boots, jawline built for sin.” Paige paused, then frowned. “And a lot of smug.” 

“Hot.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You implied it with your face.” 

Paige folded her arms, trying not to think about the kiss print on the receipt still crumpled in her jacket pocket. It had been bold. Flawless lipstick. A crime, really. 

“You know what this means, right?” Nika asked, spinning in a slow circle. “You’ve been claim-marked. Vampires sense that stuff. You’re basically off the market until the aura clears. Like spiritual engagement, but sexier and with worse consequences.” 

“I’m going to find her,” Paige said, jaw set. 

Nika clapped. “Oh, thank god. I was worried you were going to be responsible about it.” 

“She bit me. I have the right to track her down and demand… something. Apologies. Blood work. Emotional damages.” 

“A kiss?” 

Paige turned slowly. 

Nika raised both hands. “A refund, obviously.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You love me,” Nika sang. “But not as much as you want to interrogate your mysterious vampire girlfriend. Do you need help hunting her down? I can hack city cameras. Probably. With snacks.” 

“I’ll handle it,” Paige muttered, heading for the door. 

“You sure? You’re kind of glowing. It’s distracting.” 

Paige paused, just long enough to flip Nika off without looking back. 

“You’re welcome,” Nika called after her. “Bring her by for brunch if it turns into a thing!” 

- 

The bookstore was closed. Again. 

Paige stood on the sidewalk with one hand on her hip and the other gripping the edge of her jacket, like she might intimidate the locked door into giving up its secrets. It remained unimpressed.  

The glass reflected her scowl with perfect neutrality. Behind it, just barely visible beneath a shelf of taxidermied owls and occult biographies, was the faintest flicker of motion. It vanished before she could decide if it had been real. 

She pressed her face closer to the glass. 

A note had been taped to the inside. Pale cream card, expensive stock. Cursive as arrogant as the writer. 

Points for effort. Still slow. Sleep tight, hunter. –A 

It was the third one this week. 

Paige let her head thunk gently against the door. Her breath fogged the glass in small bursts, each one shorter than the last. This wasn’t hunting. It was scavenger hunting, and she was losing. Somehow. 

She pushed off the glass and turned away from the shop, muttering a quiet threat about staking the next antique typewriter she saw.  

Two teenagers in matching puffer jackets crossed the street, both giving her a wide berth. One whispered something that sounded like “feral student-athlete.” Paige chose not to respond. She had a reputation to uphold. 

Back in her dorm, Nika was curled on the couch with her feet on the coffee table and a bag of sour gummies pressed to her face like a sleep mask. She lifted it just enough to peek at Paige as the door slammed shut. 

“She left you another love letter?” 

“Shut up,” Paige said, pulling the note from her pocket and flinging it onto the armrest. “It’s not a love letter. It’s taunting. Disrespectful, personalized taunting.” 

“Were there hearts over the Is?” 

“It was cursive. You can’t tell.” 

“That’s a yes.” 

Paige kicked off her shoes with the force of emotional damage. One flew directly into the wall. The other landed inside Nika’s empty ramen bowl, which she decided not to acknowledge. 

“She’s messing with me,” Paige said, pacing now. “She knows where I am. What I’m doing. She probably knows what socks I wear to practice.” 

“She did bite you. Kind of an intimate start.” 

“It was medical,” Paige insisted. “Emergency blood clotting. She didn’t even make eye contact.” 

“Oh no,” Nika said. “She had the courtesy to keep things casual while leaving magical saliva in your bloodstream. So polite.” 

Paige grabbed a pillow and hurled it in her direction. Nika dodged without enthusiasm, then sat up and inspected the note like it might start whispering secrets. 

“You do realize,” she said, “that you’re basically on a supernatural leash. That bond you keep pretending doesn’t exist? It’s probably why she keeps finding you first. You’re connected. She’s playing tag with a GPS advantage.” 

“I hate her.” 

“You’re obsessed with her.” 

“I’m going to find her.” 

“And then what?” 

Paige paused. Stared at the window. The city lights bled in through the curtains, soft and smug. 

“Tell her to stop running.” 

Nika raised one brow. 

Paige shrugged. “And maybe ask what conditioner she uses.” 

- 

The classroom smelled like cedar and smug. 

Paige stood in the doorway, blinking at the interior like it might change into a room she hadn’t actively been trying to hunt a vampire through.  

She had taken electives before. Most involved watching documentaries from the early 2000s and professors who hated PowerPoint. This one, however, came with arched windows, bookcases taller than most gym recruits, and someone who had alphabetized every title on display. In Latin. 

She chose the seat near the back, directly under a taxidermied raven wearing what looked like an honorary hood. The tag beneath it read Milo, 1723–1796, excellent taste in poetry. 

She pulled out her notebook, clicked her pen twice, then clicked it three more times just to feel in control. The syllabus had promised vampires in medieval court records. She assumed that meant grainy woodcuts and the occasional priest with a stake collection. Nothing personal. Nothing glowing. 

Then the door at the front opened. 

Boots first. High polish, criminal heel. Followed by the coat. Black wool, collar turned up with exactly the kind of casual arrogance that required practice. Paige recognized the silhouette half a second before the face came into view, and by the time she remembered how lungs were supposed to work, the woman had already reached the desk. 

She set down her notes. Looked up. Smiled. 

Paige stared at her. Blinked once. Experienced ego death. 

“Welcome,” the professor said, eyes scanning the room with lazy curiosity. “To HIST 305: Dark History of the Supernatural. I’m Professor Fudd. You may call me Dr. Fudd, Professor, or, if you’re feeling brave, Azzi.” 

The last word landed like a dart. Paige felt it stick somewhere below her ribs. 

Next to her, someone was whispering that the professor looked like she taught vampires how to flirt. Someone else whispered she probably was one.  

Paige wrote HELP in the margin of her notebook and underlined it twice. 

Azzi leaned against the desk. Crossed her arms. No sign of recognition. Not a flicker. 

“Today we’re starting with folklore that blurs into legal record,” she said. “Which is where things get interesting. One man’s monster is another’s misunderstood neighbor with dietary preferences.” 

Paige was going to combust. 

She had hunted this woman through three neighborhoods and a bookstore that sold knives by the ounce. She had read every single handwritten note, smelled every faint trace of perfume. She had imagined confrontation, arrest, at least a dramatic staredown. None of those included sitting in the last row of a lecture while Azzi Fudd paced in front of a chalkboard like she didn’t know Paige’s exact blood type. 

The class went on. There were slides. There were quotes. At one point, Azzi described a 15th-century nobleman as “deeply stab-worthy.” Half the room fell in love.  

Paige considered leaping out the window just to regain the emotional upper hand. 

And then it happened. 

Azzi paused mid-sentence. Her eyes flicked once toward the back row. Met Paige’s. Held. 

Just long enough for it to mean something. 

Then she smiled again. The same smile Paige remembered from the bar, right before the bite. Slightly tilted, just a touch unfair. 

“I will be holding office hours on Wednesdays and Thursdays,” Azzi said, turning back to the board. “In case anyone has questions. About the reading. Or anything else.” 

She wrote something in chalk. The board read Vampiric Mythos: Perception vs. Truth but Paige’s brain had filed for early retirement. 

When class ended, she stayed in her seat. Everyone else filtered out, buzzing and thrilled. Paige stared at the front of the room. Azzi was rearranging a stack of papers, unbothered, radiant, and vaguely dangerous. 

Paige stood. 

Azzi glanced up, that familiar smile returning. This time, a touch warmer. 

“Miss Bueckers,” she said. “Nice to finally meet you in daylight.” 

- 

The hallway smelled like old books and new mistakes. 

Paige stopped outside the office door, adjusted her hoodie, then adjusted it again like that might undo the fact she’d worn it inside out for half of practice. She stared at the nameplate. 

Dr. A. Fudd  Department of History (Special Topics) 

The door was open. Not enough to see in, but just wide enough to feel like a trap. 

She knocked with the kind of energy that suggested she might regret it. Once. Twice. 

Azzi looked up from her desk, framed by daylight and academic menace. Her coat was on the back of the chair, and her boots had been replaced with ballet flats in a shade that could only be described as criminally soft. 

“Paige,” she said, smiling like she’d expected this. “Come in.” 

The office was unfair. Cozy, cluttered, quiet in the way churches and interrogation rooms were quiet. Books piled on every surface. A candle on the windowsill that smelled like cedarwood and the start of a good decision. There was a mug shaped like a cat wearing a monocle. 

Paige sat across from her, hands in her lap like she might accidentally stake the desk if she moved too suddenly. 

“I had a question,” she said, which was technically true. “About class.” 

Azzi nodded, all polite attention, like Paige hadn’t literally chased her through three boroughs and a bar fight. 

“Of course,” Azzi said. “Was it the reading on post-Reformation vampire trials? Or the bit where you stormed into my bar and nearly set a vampire on fire with a glow stick?” 

Paige blinked. 

Azzi’s expression was entirely too pleased. 

“You bit me,” Paige hissed, leaning in. 

“You were bleeding.” 

“You used your mouth.” 

“Would you have preferred I let you pass out in a bathroom stall while a coven of bloodthirsty idiots debated whether your limbs were decorative?” 

“That’s not how first aid works.” 

Azzi raised a brow. “Do you want your blood back? I can get you a juice box. Something with electrolytes.” 

Paige made a strangled sound. Possibly a vowel. Possibly her soul leaving. 

Azzi leaned back. Her smile curved like a parenthesis made entirely of trouble. 

“Besides,” she said, “you were being dramatic. I barely grazed you.” 

“I have a mark,” Paige hissed. “An actual, magical, glowing mark. My neck sparkles like I lost a fight with a Twilight-themed rave.” 

“You look great,” Azzi said. “Very subtle glow. Excellent for nighttime visibility.” 

Paige buried her face in her hands. This was not the confrontation she’d envisioned. This was banter. Worse—this was effective banter. 

Azzi stood, walked around the desk, and leaned against the edge like she had never committed a single crime. 

“You’re not dying,” she said, softer now. “There’s no permanent claim. Not unless you do something reckless. Like bite back.” 

Paige looked up. Eyes met. The office was quiet in a way that demanded attention. 

“I wasn’t flirting,” Azzi said. “In the notes. Just...letting you know you’re not the only one who keeps tabs.” 

Paige’s voice came out smaller than she meant. “The doodle?” 

Azzi tilted her head. “Which one?” 

“The basketball with fangs.” 

Azzi considered. “That one might’ve been flirting.” 

Paige felt her face warm. Betrayal. Treason. Probably a side effect of the bite. 

Azzi stepped closer, slow and unhurried. 

“Are you still here to fight me?” she asked, voice low and amused. 

Paige stood. Met her gaze. Tried to remember how lungs functioned. 

“Only if I win.” 

Azzi smiled. Paige was fairly certain the candle flickered in approval. 

“Then stay after class tomorrow,” Azzi said, stepping around her, already moving toward the door. “We’ll see who wins what.” 

The door clicked shut behind her. 

Paige remained in the office, staring at the cat mug. Its monocle looked back with judgment. 

She took the mug. Considered it a souvenir. 

- 

Paige arrived late and blamed gravity. And her shoelace. And Nika, who had taken one look at Paige’s attempt at a neutral outfit and laughed for a full minute before shoving a lip balm into her hand and declaring her unfit for public romance. 

“It’s not a date,” Paige had muttered, tugging her hoodie over her head. 

“Sure,” Nika had said. “That’s why you’re wearing your good socks.” 

The study room was technically part of the library but felt more like the kind of space someone designed while drunk on hardwood finishes and candlelight aesthetics.  

Azzi had claimed the corner table. The chairs were upholstered. There was a small stack of ancient books to her left and a box of cookies to her right. Real cookies. Homemade, from the smell of them. Possibly cursed, from the way they sat uneaten. 

Paige hovered near the edge of the carpet like it might reject her presence. 

Azzi looked up from her notes, eyes calm and unreadable. “You’re late.” 

Paige shrugged. “I’m punctual in spiritual ways.” 

Azzi gestured to the seat across from her. “That sounds like a confession.” 

Paige sat. The chair was offensively comfortable. She sank two inches and lost half her composure. 

“I brought notes,” Azzi said, passing her a folder. “Color-coded. I was feeling generous.” 

Paige flipped it open. The handwriting was stupidly neat. Cursive, like a person who sent holiday cards on time. There were diagrams. A tiny doodle of a vampire holding a protest sign that read Let Us Live (Forever). 

Paige glanced up. “Do all your students get illustrated protest vampires?” 

“Only the ones who track me across campus and sit outside my office muttering about necks and betrayal.” 

Paige smiled despite herself. “You should be flattered.” 

“Oh, I am,” Azzi said, selecting a cookie. “The stalking was very organized. I’ve seen less thorough surveillance from actual hunters.” 

“I am an actual hunter.” 

Azzi raised a brow. “And yet, here you are. Studying Dark History. Eating my snacks.” 

Paige stared at the cookie. It had white chocolate chips and the power to ruin her. She took one. Immediate regret, but also bliss. She chewed, slowly. Tried not to make a sound. 

Azzi looked pleased. “That’s the rosemary. Unexpected, but charming.” 

“Like your entire personality,” Paige said, then immediately buried her face in the folder. She could feel her ears doing something treasonous. 

Azzi laughed. Soft, delighted, the kind of sound that made Paige want to set fire to the table just for a distraction. 

They studied. Sort of. 

Paige attempted focus. Azzi kept talking. Not about the reading, which Paige could have handled, but about historical absurdities. One countess who wore garlic as perfume. Another who kept a diary in pig’s blood but also ran an orphanage. The contradictions made Paige dizzy. 

She took notes that made no sense. 

“Why is there a fanged sun on this page?” Azzi asked, leaning over. 

Paige nudged the paper away. “Art therapy.” 

Azzi hummed. “And this one?” 

“That’s a tactical doodle.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

They made it through three topics before Azzi closed her book and sighed. 

“I don’t think you’re here for the footnotes.” 

Paige looked up. “I am a dedicated student.” 

Azzi’s smile tipped sideways. “Then what’s the main takeaway from today’s reading?” 

Paige thought for a second. “Do not invite vampires into your study group unless you want to feel academically inferior and emotionally compromised.” 

Azzi nodded. “Fair. And accurate.” 

They sat in the silence that only libraries and confessions could make comfortable. 

Paige took another cookie. She deserved it. 

Azzi tapped the folder. “You’re keeping this. And if you smudge the ink with your snack hands, I will assign you a paper on 17th-century vampire trial logistics.” 

Paige grinned. “That sounds made up.” 

“It involves spreadsheets,” Azzi said. “You’ll hate it.” 

They walked out together. The hallway echoed gently. Paige didn’t try to touch her, but their arms bumped once, and neither moved. 

Outside, Nika waited on a bench with a soda and a smirk. 

“Well?” she said, standing as Paige approached. 

Paige held up the folder. “I learned things.” 

Nika glanced past her, caught sight of Azzi exiting behind her with a relaxed expression and a cookie in hand. 

“Oh, honey,” Nika said. “You’re screwed.” 

Paige smiled. Just a little. 

“I know.” 

- 

There were several things Paige Bueckers could confidently handle. Jump shots under pressure. Full-court presses. Finals week with a caffeine habit and a broken printer. 

Glowing in the dark was not on the list. 

She discovered it by accident, brushing her teeth with the lights off, because apparently ambiance mattered when you were trying to feel like a functioning adult.  

The mirror caught a faint shimmer near her collarbone, subtle and quietly intrusive. 

She scrubbed harder. It sparkled brighter. 

By morning, her neck looked like someone had taken highlighter and artistic liberties. There was also a small, unfamiliar urge to bite the guy who cut in front of her at the coffee line, but she chalked that up to being hangry. 

The real issue was practice. 

Paige wore a scarf over her basketball jersey. 

Nika noticed immediately. 

“You look like a Victorian ghost,” she said, sipping from her aggressively iced drink. “One of those sad ones who haunts a gazebo and talks about love letters.” 

Paige adjusted the scarf. “It’s a choice.” 

“It’s a fashion crime.” 

Paige glared. Nika leaned closer. 

“Is that shimmer? Are you wearing body glitter to drills?” 

Paige swatted her away. 

Coach glanced at them and frowned. Paige waved. Nika saluted. 

Afterward, Paige cornered Azzi near the science building, who had apparently decided that today was the day to wear a turtleneck and glasses, which felt rude on several levels. 

Paige grabbed her wrist. “We have a situation.” 

Azzi looked at her, calm and curious. “Did you finally sprout fangs?” 

“I’m glowing.” 

“That’s a side effect.” 

“Of what?” 

Azzi shrugged. “Heightened sensory attunement. Residual blood magic. Mild imprinting.” 

Paige blinked. “Mild?” 

Azzi smiled. “On the vampire scale, you’re about as terrifying as a scented candle.” 

“That’s not comforting.” 

“Depends on the scent.” 

Paige groaned. “Do I need a magical exfoliator? A counter-curse? Therapy?” 

Azzi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’ll fade. Probably.” 

Paige narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?” 

“It’s temporary,” Azzi said, voice light. “Unless you do something reckless. Like kiss me.” 

Paige choked on air. 

Azzi tilted her head. “Too soon?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good to know.” 

They stood in silence long enough for someone passing by to cough in solidarity. Paige stepped back, arms folded, expression tight. 

“So, I’m just supposed to wait it out?” 

Azzi reached into her bag and pulled out a compact mirror. She handed it over. 

“Check again after midnight. Moonlight helps.” 

Paige took the mirror, suspicious. “Is this enchanted?” 

“It’s from Sephora.” 

Nika texted her an hour later.  okay twilight. your neck’s auditioning for euphoria.   do you need a priest or a moisturizer? 

Paige typed half a reply, deleted it, then sent a picture of her sandwich instead. Nika responded with a GIF of someone sobbing into a glittery pillow. 

Paige turned her phone face down and stared at the ceiling for a while. 

Outside, the moon looked aggressively smug. Her neck sparkled like it had gossip to share. 

She buried her face in her pillow and groaned. 

Tomorrow, she was buying turtlenecks. In bulk. 

- 

The flyer said “Community Enrichment Night,” which was already a red flag. 

Nika had snatched it off the bulletin board between rec center yoga and someone advertising haunted crystals. She waved it in front of Paige’s face like it was a winning lottery ticket. 

“You owe me,” she said. “For covering your Hunter shift. For bleaching your blood off my gym towel. For tolerating your smitten zombie routine.” 

“I’m not smitten,” Paige muttered. “I’m... processing.” 

“You’re glowing,” Nika said, patting her cheek like a grandma at a church picnic. “And tonight, we are going to something wholesome and un-haunted. Trivia night. No stakes. No blood. No weird vampire professors.” 

The event was held in the student union, which had been temporarily transformed into what could only be described as "cozy crypt chic." Low lights. Faux cobwebs. A fog machine that hissed like someone had bad feelings about theatre tech. 

Paige squinted at the sign-in sheet.    TRIVIA: UNDEAD EDITION.  Round One: Literature. Round Two: Feeding Habits. Final Round: Forbidden Love. 

“I feel tricked,” Paige said. 

Nika handed her a nametag. “You’re wearing that. We’re Team Blood Sugar Twins.”  

Before Paige could argue, someone tapped the mic at the front of the room. 

Azzi stood center stage, perfectly at ease, holding a clipboard and smiling like mischief in human form. Her shirt had tiny embroidered coffins. Her earrings were little bats. There was a single pink pen tucked behind one ear. 

“Welcome,” she said, voice smooth and friendly. “Tonight’s trivia will test your brains, your bonds, and your questionable knowledge of vampire dating culture.” 

Paige turned to Nika. 

Nika took a chip from the snack bowl. “This is better than Netflix.” 

The first question was about Bram Stoker. Paige got that one. The second was a quote from a banned vampire webcomic. Nika guessed. Correctly. 

By round three, Paige had taken off her jacket. Azzi was watching their table, discreet enough to seem casual but clearly deliberate. 

What is the most common symptom of a temporary bond mark?  A. Enhanced strength  B. Shared dreams  C. Skin sensitivity  D. Emotional projection 

Paige froze. 

Nika nudged her. “You’re staring.” 

Paige circled “C” with an angry flourish. 

Azzi raised her eyebrows when she collected their answer sheet. 

Later, as prizes were being handed out (third place: garlic bread, second place: garlic-scented candle, first place: very ominous looking key), Paige found herself near the drink table. Her cup was empty. Her patience, thinner. 

Azzi appeared beside her, perfectly silent in her approach, which was deeply unfair. 

“Having fun?” she asked, reaching for the punch ladle. 

“I was tricked.” 

Azzi poured them both a drink. “You didn’t read the fine print?” 

“There was no fine print.” 

“There was a very large bat logo. That feels like disclosure.” 

Paige took the cup. “You wore your flirtiest earrings.” 

Azzi looked pleased. “You noticed.” 

“You’re the host.” 

“You’re glowing again,” Azzi said, lightly, sipping her drink. “And it’s not the lighting.” 

Paige looked at her cup. At the fog machine. At the ridiculous trivia crown on the first-place winner’s head. 

“This feels like a date.” 

Azzi leaned in, just enough. “Do you want it to be?” 

Paige thought about the bat earrings. The pen behind her ear. The question about dreams. 

She finished her punch. 

“Ask me after round four.” 

“There’s no round four.” 

“Then improvise.” 

Azzi’s smile tilted, slow and sharp. 

Paige walked back to the table. 

Nika raised a brow. “Did you two flirt about blood again?” 

“We flirted about trivia.” 

“Gross.” 

Paige ignored her. Azzi returned to the mic. 

Round Four appeared on the screen.    Final Bonus: Physical challenge.   One partner must complete a blindfolded trust exercise.   The other guides. 

Paige’s nametag peeled off slightly. Her neck glowed like it was rooting for them. 

- 

A tarnished brass plaque by the door read Neutral Grounds, the only hint that the place was a bar at all. Someone had carved a fanged smiley face beneath the lettering, like a Yelp review from the crypt. 

The bar smelled like dust and mischief. Velvet curtains drooped like they’d given up centuries ago. Every table had its own antique lamp, all casting the kind of golden glow that made secrets easier to tell. 

Azzi was already there, curled into an armchair that might’ve once belonged to a king with a flair for drama. Her drink shimmered unnaturally violet, like it had been brewed by moonlight and bad decisions. 

“Nice of you to show up,” she said, twirling her straw. “I was starting to think you got cold feet.” 

Paige dropped into the chair across from her. “Was deciding whether to wear garlic.” 

“Bold of you to assume I’d find that threatening.” 

“Bold of you to assume I’m here for you.” 

Azzi leaned forward, chin in her hand, absolutely delighted. “Oh, please. You’re glowing again. It’s practically neon.” 

Paige pressed her hand to her neck. “I was near a UV lamp.” 

“Sure.” Azzi took a sip and set her glass down with theatrical elegance. “You do know this is a vampire neutral zone. No biting, no brawling, no passive-aggressive sighing.” 

“I read the plaque outside.” 

“Then you know the rules. Talk civilly, drink something weird, compliment your date.” 

Paige blinked. 

Azzi smiled like it was a reflex. “I said what I said.” 

“I’m not your date.” 

“That’s a shame. You’re dressed like one.” 

Paige glanced down. Black jeans, leather jacket, shirt that may or may not have glitter on it from Nika’s laundry. “This is what I wear to interrogations.” 

Azzi’s grin deepened. “Then I’m feeling very honored. And only slightly threatened.” 

A vampire two tables over looked like he wanted to interrupt. One glance at Paige, and he reconsidered. Azzi didn’t even look away. Her eyes were busy cataloging the way Paige’s knee bounced under the table. 

“So,” Azzi said, toying with the rim of her glass, “are we going to talk about the fact that I have excellent taste in trivia questions?” 

“You asked who invented blood transfusions.” 

“And you got it wrong. Twice.” 

“It was a setup.” 

“It was adorable.” 

Paige rolled her eyes. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?” 

Azzi blinked. “Only with people who smell like holy water and unfinished business.” 

There was a pause. A soft hum of conversation in the background. Jazz again, but more upbeat this time, like the building was trying to encourage scandal. 

Azzi leaned back in her chair. “I could offer you a drink.” 

“I brought my own.” Paige pulled a bottle of something green from her jacket. The cap sparkled. The label was in Latin. 

Azzi raised a brow. “I see you raided the exorcist locker.” 

Paige shrugged. “Figured you’d be into something cursed.” 

Azzi laughed. It was warm, genuine, almost human. She reached across the table and flicked something off Paige’s sleeve. “Bat glitter. You’ve really leaned into the aesthetic.” 

“I blame you.” 

“I take full credit.” 

Another beat passed, easy and unhurried. 

Azzi tilted her head. “So. Are you here to fight me?” 

Paige smiled slowly. “Still deciding.” 

Azzi looked too pleased. “I recommend kissing. Far less paperwork.” 

- 

The noodle container had lost structural integrity somewhere between confession number four and sarcastic comment number nine. A thin trail of neon-orange sauce had begun to pool on the desk. Paige eyed it like it had betrayed her on purpose. 

Azzi, perfectly unbothered, slid over a slightly dented spoon. “Do not judge my methods. Some of us were undead during the invention of powdered cheese.” 

Paige accepted it warily, poking at the mess like it might rearrange itself into something less fluorescent. “You’re not that old.” 

Azzi tilted her head, lips curving around something smug. “Vampire skincare. We age like rumor.” 

Paige scraped up a bite, squinting at it. “Okay, but like… how old are you, really?” 

Azzi looked thoughtful for a beat, then gestured vaguely in the air. “Old enough to remember when forks were controversial.” 

Paige squinted harder. “That’s not real.” 

“Everything sounds fake when you’re under twenty-five.” 

“I’m twenty-two.” 

Azzi brightened. “That makes this worse.” 

“You’re making this worse.” 

“And yet, here you are. Eating my suspicious noodles.” 

The pasta had no right to taste as decent as it did. Paige chewed in silence, half-annoyed, half-impressed. She shifted in her seat, her knee bumping Azzi’s under the desk. 

Azzi didn’t move. Paige blinked at the contact. Cool. Not room temperature, but something gentler — like marble warmed just slightly by sunlight. 

“You’re freezing,” Paige murmured, brushing her leg against hers again for confirmation. 

“I’m undead,” Azzi leaned a fraction closer, lashes fluttering with dangerous intent. “Don’t worry. You’ll warm me up.” 

Paige made a strangled noise. “I hate you.” 

Azzi smiled like she'd just won a bet with fate. “I don’t think so.” 

Paige snorted, trying to look anywhere but at her mouth. “You studied me. Had a folder.” 

Azzi, criminally relaxed, stole the last dumpling and chewed with visible satisfaction. “Your layup form is hypnotic. And your temper? Iconic. Your hunting skills need training though. Don’t want to save you ass again in another fight.” 

“You marked me,” Paige said, around another bite of carb. 

“You chased me across three districts.” 

“You flirted during trivia.” 

“You flirted back.” 

“Because you were smug.” 

Azzi leaned in again, just enough for Paige to catch the faint scent of her — tea leaves, dried roses, something darker that probably came from a bottle older than the building. “You like me smug.” 

Paige’s throat went a little dry. She stared down at her spoon. She wasn’t sure if it was the vampire thing, the flirting, or the fact that Azzi had somehow turned late-night noodles into foreplay. 

Azzi’s fingers brushed hers. Light, like she was still asking. 

“I kept the receipt and other stuff,” Paige said. Quiet. Like admitting it too loudly would make it sound unserious. 

Azzi looked up, startled into softness. “I knew you would.” 

“I reread them. More than once.” 

The quiet that settled between them felt like a drawstring being pulled gently closed. Paige set down her spoon. Azzi, for once, didn’t have a clever comment. Just her hands, open between them. 

When they kissed, it didn’t come with music or cinematic lighting. It came because they were tired of pretending otherwise. Paige leaned in, slow. Azzi met her halfway. 

She tasted like cheap tea and something slightly herbal, probably an elixir she kept in her coat pocket for dramatic effect.  

Her lips were cool — not lifeless, just different. A kind of contrast Paige hadn’t known she wanted until now. Azzi’s fingers rested against her neck, right where the mark used to shimmer. Paige kissed her harder for that. 

They pulled apart eventually, though it felt mildly illegal. 

Azzi rested her forehead against Paige’s, eyes shut like she was memorizing the moment. 

“I liked you from the second you almost punched me,” she murmured, smiling without opening her eyes. 

Paige blinked. “I liked you from the second you bit me. Accidentally. While being weirdly heroic.” 

Azzi’s laugh was low, fond, and entirely unfair. “I can bite you again. On purpose.” 

Paige shoved her shoulder, which was mostly an excuse to touch her again. “You’re not funny.” 

“You’re falling for me.” 

“Fine. Maybe.” 

Azzi leaned back with a grin that suggested she was adding Paige to some mental trophy shelf. “You want more noodles?” 

“Do you have garlic?” 

Azzi looked offended on a spiritual level. “Blasphemy.” 

They spent the next hour tangled in snack debris and philosophical arguments about undead sleep schedules. Paige ended up curled into Azzi’s office chair, arms tucked under her borrowed jacket, trying to look unimpressed while very much enjoying the view. 

Azzi perched on the desk beside her, reading gothic poetry in a fake British accent that made Paige snort into her third dumpling. 

They didn’t talk about the mark again. 

But when Paige touched her neck, she smiled. 

- 

The couch was barely a couch. More of a firm rectangle pretending to be comfortable. Paige had managed to commandeer it at some point around three a.m., legs folded like a paper crane and Azzi’s jacket wrapped tight around her shoulders. She woke to the scent of something citrusy and the distinct feeling of being watched. 

Azzi sat cross-legged on her desk, looking far too awake for someone who hosted vampire trivia the night before and argued about bite protocol with remarkable conviction. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Azzi said, offering a carton of blood orange juice like it was a peace treaty. 

Paige blinked. “Do you just… not sleep?” 

“I meditate with aesthetic flair.” 

“That sounds fake.” 

“Fake, but effective.” 

Paige sat up slowly, joints cracking in protest. The jacket slipped off one shoulder, and Azzi stared like it was a magic trick. 

“I should go,” Paige said, rubbing her eyes. “I have drills. And a very nosy best friend.” 

“You can take the hoodie,” Azzi offered, holding up one that looked like it had seen multiple decades and one minor fire. 

Paige hesitated. “Is this a vampire thing? Hoodies as romantic gestures?” 

“It’s a me thing,” Azzi said. “You looked cold.” 

Paige took it without further protest. “Thanks. You looked... undisturbed.” 

“I don’t have blood circulation. I never look disturbed.” 

Paige grinned. “We should talk about this.” 

“The blood flow issue?” 

“The dating thing.” 

Azzi tilted her head. “You want a relationship talk before breakfast?” 

“You’re undead. This is breakfast.” 

Azzi clinked her juice carton to Paige’s in a gesture that was either solemn or deeply unserious. 

Paige drank. “So, ground rules.” 

“No texting of memes and weird gifs at 2 a.m.” 

“No biting without consent. No ghosting via mist form.” 

“No turning your teammates just to win nationals.” 

Paige raised a brow. “That was oddly specific.” 

Azzi sipped her juice, all innocence. She caught Paige’s ankle, thumb brushing over bare skin like it wasn’t a big deal. “You make being undead very inconvenient.” 

Paige tilted her head. “You make being a vampire hunter kind of a problem.” 

“Is that your way of saying you like me?” 

“It’s too early for that.” 

Azzi smiled. “Don't worry, I like you too.” 

- 

The shimmer was faint now. 

It had taken effort to spot it — a tilt of the bathroom mirror, the overhead light flickering just enough to catch the last glint of silver across her collarbone. Where it once pulsed bright and stubborn, it now blinked like a star on its way out. 

Paige pressed two fingers against it. There was no flicker, no burn, no spark of stolen magic. Only the plain feel of skin. 

She stayed there for a while, letting the silence stretch. Then she washed her face, dried her hands, and padded back into Azzi’s apartment, still wearing one sock and a hoodie two sizes too big. 

Azzi sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a stack of vampire zines from the '90s, sipping something unnervingly red from a teacup. She glanced up, eyebrow raised. 

“You’ve been gone for ages. What, did the hand soap betray you?” 

Paige sat down beside her, a little too careful. “I think it’s fading.” 

Azzi blinked. “The soap?” 

“The mark.” Paige tapped her neck, lightly, as if she could coax it into coming back. “It’s barely there.” 

Azzi’s expression didn’t shift at first. She set down her cup with more ceremony than necessary, like she needed a full second to process the change in topic. 

“I thought it would last longer,” Paige added. “I thought maybe it meant something.” 

Azzi tilted her head. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a way that felt rehearsed, though Paige had watched her enough now to know it wasn’t. 

“It did mean something,” Azzi said. “Just not that.” 

Paige looked at her. “So, if it disappears, that’s it? No spark? No bite-induced heart hiccup? Just… me?” 

Azzi leaned closer. She smelled like tea and smudged ink. Her fingertips brushed the edge of Paige’s knee, soft and deliberate. 

“You liking me was never about the mark. That was all you.” 

“Rude,” Paige muttered. 

Azzi smiled like she had been waiting for that exact reaction. “You don’t need a magical vampire glitter hickey to want me around.” 

Paige frowned. “You can’t say ‘hickey’ and expect me to have a normal heart rate.” 

“I never promised normal,” Azzi said sweetly. “But if you’re really that sentimental, I could bite you again. For old times’ sake.” 

She wiggled her eyebrows. Paige shoved her shoulder, face warm. 

“I’m serious,” Paige said, softer now. “It felt… important. When it was there.” 

Azzi’s hand slid into hers, thumb tracing a small, slow circle. “It was important. Just not in the way you’re afraid it was.” 

Paige studied their hands. Her heartbeat wasn’t crashing anymore, just tapping gently like it belonged there. 

“So, no more glowing neck?” 

“No more glowing neck,” Azzi confirmed. 

“But still the kissing part?” 

“Extensively.” 

“And you still like me?” 

Azzi kissed the corner of her mouth like it was a punctuation mark. “Tragically.” 

Paige smiled. She leaned in again, slower this time, eyes fluttering shut just as Azzi tugged her closer. The kiss tasted like sugar and something impossible to name. 

When they pulled apart, the room felt quieter. Brighter. Steady in a way Paige hadn’t known she wanted. 

The mark had faded. 

But Azzi hadn’t. 

Azzi squeezed her hand. “Do you want to go watch Twilight until we both hate ourselves?” 

[lefteagleblizzard]

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: you test Joel Miller's patience one too many times, desperate to prove yourself and when a reckless act nearly gets you killed, he shows you exactly what happens when you push a man like him too far. You wanted his respect. Instead, you get his full attention under the weight of his fury, pressed face-first against a crumbling wall, held down as he fucks you raw.

Tags: Set in The Last of Us Part I. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Angst. Enemies/friends to lovers. Age Gap. Protective Joel Miller. Feral Joel Miller. Some descriptions of violence. Some gore elements but not too much. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Brat tamer Joel Miller. Reckless bottom male reader. Size difference. Anal sex.

This was written with game Joel in mind, since I personally prefer the video game way more than the TV show in general.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 5000

The streets were waterlogged veins, slick with runoff and filth. Buildings leaned like they were exhaling their last breath, brick bloated and peeling from twenty years of rain and collapse. The air hung heavy of mildew, rusted rebar, and the sour stink of stagnant floodwater. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed half-heartedly. Closer, nothing but the lap of murky water against concrete.

An hotel loomed up out of the sludge. Hotel Grand, half its letters rusted off the vertical sign still clinging to the brick like a parasite. Green slime clung to the lower floor. Water had swallowed the lobby up to the waist.

The glass doors were shattered. The awning collapsed on one side. Beyond the lobby, darkness pooled like oil, lit only by the glow bleeding through the grime-streaked windows.

You swam through what used to be a valet lane, breaking the surface with a breathless sigh and shaking water from your silenced sidearm. Ellie rode a warped wooden slab, her hands gripping the edges, sneakers dripping. Joel swam with one hand, the other pushing her along, grimacing every time debris scratched his arms or bumped his ribs.

He grunted as he hauled himself up the marble steps into the flooded lobby.

The water inside was of the same green tone, thick with floating filth. Soggy furniture broke the surface like dead whales, mold clawed its way up the walls in dark veins.

You walked in front of the concierge desk. Ellie followed, boots squelching. Her eyes scanned the ruin, then her face lit up. She ducked behind the desk, poked her head up and cleared her throat theatrically “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, grinning. “Do you have a reservation?”

You grinned, adjusting your wet hair and holstering your gun . “Yeah. Name’s Badass.’ Suite, preferably. Got a thing for soaking tubs.”

She snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry, sir, we’re all booked. But if you’d like to wait on hold for fifteen years—”

Joel groaned from the base of the stairs, racking a round into his revolver. “Both of you, enough.”

“Party pooper,” Ellie mumbled.

You leaned down and offered her a hand up onto the higher ledge. She took it without question. Joel watched the exchange, jaw set, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on your hand a little too long.

You explored the edges of the flooded floor carefully, boots sloshing through what felt more like soup than water. Moss-covered tables leaned sideways. Chairs floated lazily past. Old room service carts lay overturned and rusted, linens eaten by rot.

Dozens and rapid splashes came from outside, in the water.

You froze, just like Joel.

Looking up from where you were, a section of upper flooring had collapsed over the years, exposing the next level up, a sharp edge jutting down like a broken tooth.

You backed up, boots hitting dry tile as you started to run.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare—” Joel’s voice tore through the lobby, low, furious, but you were already mid-air when he barked those words, fingers scraping the jagged edge of collapsed floor and making it possible to pull yourself up, ribs burning.

You pressed yourself flat to the floor just as the front doors slammed open below. Water sloshed and footsteps thundered as some bandits stormed inside

Five of them all armed with rifles, bats and crowbars. A few had makeshift armor strapped on with duct tape and salvaged plate.

The floor beneath your elbows was warped and soft with rot, carpet peeled back to reveal splinters fattened by mold, soaked deep with twenty years of decay. Every deliberate crawl scraped damp grit along your knees, but you couldn’t afford any noises. One creak too sharp and they’d be on you.

You positioned yourself right at the edge of the collapsed floor, the ragged drop-off giving you a broken bird’s eye view of the lobby below, Joel was crouched near an overturned table with Ellie at his side, his revolver steady but his jaw clenched tight.

You spotted the first enemy slinking through the murk. Shoulders hunched, rifle out. His boots sloshed through the knee-high floodwater, one step at a time, muzzle twitching with every sound.

You watched Joel stiffen. He turned, caught Ellie’s sleeve and tugged her further into cover.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled. Pulled your sidearm into position, the familiar weight of the gun settled against your palm, heavy from the custom suppressor bolted to the front. Your gloves soaked from the earlier swim and your breath drew in to further steady your hands.

Thwick.

The shot barely made a sound, but the result was instant.

The man’s head snapped back, a spray of dark red painting the mold-ridden pillar behind him before his body crumpled like a marionette with its strings sliced. The splash he made landing into the floodwater was much louder.

The others whipped around, they spotted the body and your next shot lined up.

Thwick.

The second man dropped like a bag of bricks, blood painting a slick trail across the surface of the water.

You pulled back immediately when one of them had seen the muzzle glint. The crack of a gunshot exploded past your ear and whined off the half-collapsed frame beside your head, splinters lancing across your cheek. You flattened, crawling fast across the broken space toward another patch of shadow.

“Second floor! Flank left, I got him—!”

He didn’t finish. Joel rose up behind the bastard the second his attention was on you, thick bicep wrapping around the man’s throat before he could even cry out.

His forearm flexed, bicep crushing upward. You barely heard the crunch produced by the man’s neck.

Joel didn’t flinch, he just lowered the body carefully into the water without a splash.

The others moved in, furious now, stumbling forward with rage-blind sloppiness. Ellie ducked low and lobbed a brick square in the temple of one of the two bandits, stunning him long enough for Joel to stomp forward and grab him by the throat.

You shifted to a better angle and took out the last man flanking the east wall, catching him in the shoulder first, off aim, but the second shot took him in the eye, dropping him clean.

Your cheek pressed into the warm, dust-caked floor. The reek of wet carpet and decaying upholstery crowded your nose.

Below, Joel kept his revolver at the ready, his back to a soaked pillar, scanning each flickering corner of the flooded lobby while Ellie stayed close, her knife in-hand, hunched and alert.

You exhaled slowly, hand reaching for your sidearm still warm from the string of shots you’d just landed. The silencer was hot. Burned your fingertips a little as you twisted it off to check the threading. Everything is fine and clean.

The tape you’d used to hold the makeshift suppressor firm was wet, but hadn’t loosened. You dragged a cloth across the grooves to clear the grime before pushing it back into place and clicked it securely, eyes still on the ruined lobby below. Then the mag came out, only two rounds left. You yanked a fresh one from your chest rig and slapped it in with a soft thunk.

“Holy shit. That was sick!” Ellie’s voice was clear and loud as she grinned up at you, her voice pitching higher with excitement. “Dude, you’ve gotta teach me how to shoot like that!”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. “You got it, kid.”

“Ellie. Quiet.” Joel’s voice came in low, harsh and unforgiving.

Ellie deflated immediately, her shoulders tensing and mouth snapping shut like she’d just been caught mid-crime. Her brows twitched, but she didn’t talk back. Not when Joel was in that tone.

“There’s still more of ‘em,” he said, before his gaze cut upward straight to you, his hand flexing against the grip of his revolver like he was imagining something far less helpful in it.

“You stupid son of a bitch. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us?”

Joel’s voice cracked across the room like a rifle shot. He stood with his fist clenched at his side, shoulders squared and heaving with fury, eyes burning into you like twin wildfires. His jaw was tight, barely keeping the rest of what he wanted to say behind clenched teeth.

You stood your ground, chin tilted up, voice clipped and biting, trying to mask the dull sting behind your ribs with a poorly disguised air of confidence.

“I had the high ground.” It came out too fast and defensive. The words rang with more pride than sense, tone laced with a bratty sharpness, an edge carved out of disappointment.

You had hoped that Joel might’ve seen the good in what you did. That he’d look past the recklessness and see you not as some liability he had to babysit, but someone capable he could count on.

But the look on his face said otherwise. He saw a mistake, a near-loss.

Joel’s boot scraped the floor as he took a step closer, voice rising. “You had no goddamn idea how many were comin’,” he snapped, eyes wild. “Could’ve been a dozen more. Could’ve circled. You get your dumbass pinned up there, I’m supposed to leave Ellie to come scrape your corpse off the goddamn floor?!”

The air between you went cold from the way he said corpse, like he already saw it happen. Your throat felt dry.

Ellie stayed crouched off to the side, eyes darting between you like she’d seen this play out before.

Your voice was smaller now, but no less certain, heat still burning in your chest, jaw tight and fingers twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully left your body.

“I was covering you—” you started, trying to force it out with calm, like maybe if you sounded sure enough, it would change the way he was looking at you.

“I don’t need cover from someone who don’t know when to sit the fuck down and follow orders.” His words cut sharper than any clicker bite ever could.

Your breath caught mid-chest, your teeth clenching to keep the sting from showing.

You stood there, wounded and unwilling to admit it. You wanted to impress him, earn something more than that constant, irritated scowl. You wanted his respect and attention so badly it made your hands shake.

A purposely long and loud sigh left your lips. “Fine,” you muttered, voice low, rising to your feet with the groan of old floorboards under you.

You caught Ellie’s glance, sympathetic but silent. Smart kid.

“I’ll see if there’s a way to get you guys up. Maybe I’ll find you a muzzle up here while I’m at it.”

As your eyes swept the half-collapsed upper floor, something caught your attention near the far corner of the room. Stashed behind a warped vending machine, just visible through the grime-coated glass of a shattered divider, was a folded set of portable stairs. Rusted aluminum propped diagonally on one leg.

Perfect.

You crept toward it, keeping low. The moment your fingers wrapped around the cold, corroded metal, you felt how stubborn it was, heavier than expected, the rust biting through your gloves like sandpaper.

A wet, slapping rhythm echoed behind you. Bare feet moving too fast. The sound of a body flinging itself across tile, uncaring of its own survival.

The kind of noise that made your spine stiffen before your brain could even register the threat. A guttural, snarled growl that raised every hair on your neck.

You turned but not in time.

A Runner bursted out of a side corridor and it hit you hard, shoulder first, with so much force that your feet left the ground.

Your body smashed sideways into the window to your left, the cracked glass from the neighboring hotel room gave instantly under your weight, shattering in a rush of splinters and light. A mix of glass and old rainwater exploded outward as your back slammed into the floor inside, the wind tore from your lungs.

The runner’s limbs scraped violently along the ground as it scrambled after you. Instinctively, you jammed your arm under its jaw, keeping it barely away from your neck as its head twisted, trying to sink teeth into your skin, screaming rage straight into your ears.

Your free hand scraped and grabbed something sharp and cold. A shard of glass from the shattered window that you immediately slashed straight across the side of its face, cheek to temple.

Red blood sprayed and the infected reeled back, screeching until it went still. One final spasm and then nothing.

You crawled out from under it, elbows dragging you across the other side of the room floor, breath heaving, heart trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

You staggered to the far wall, collapsed against it, eyes wide, gasping. The glass was still in your hand, palms and legs trembling.

You blinked sweat from your eyes and looked for your gun half-hidden beneath a broken shelf.

The second you grabbed it, voices echoed in the hallway. The remaining bandits were coming.

You ran fast. One room to the next. Shattered doors and tilted furniture, boots pounding across buckling floorboards. No time to think or stop.

Gun tight in your grip, trigger finger itching as the bandit came into view through the gnarled remains of a splintered wardrobe.

One shot and the silenced round punched clean through his temple. He dropped without a word, limbs scattering, weapon clattering to the soaked floor.

You caught the second one mid-rotation when he realized his buddy’s death. Two rounds in quick succession to the chest and to the neck. A third bandit appeared through the jagged crack in a doorway, a hatchet swinging wide.

You pulled the trigger once but it was now empty. As fast as possible you ducked, shoulder rolling under the wide arc of the blade, grabbing the man’s arm and ramming your elbow into his ribs with all the force you could muster, a technique you learned after observing Joel for so long.

He grunted, faltered and you plunged the butt of your gun into his skull twice before he dropped to the ground.

But then a body crashed into you from the side. The impact slammed you against the wall so hard your vision burst with white. The sound that left your chest wasn’t even human, more wheezing than scream, your shoulder bouncing off rotting wood.

You dropped your gun involuntarily, it skidded across the floor and out of reach as the bandit pressed his forearm into your neck.

“Fucking stay down,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour in your face, his fist drove into your stomach once, twice, three times.

Then came a hand to your throat, a tight pressure applied almost immediately. His fingers clamped down like steel, cutting off your supply of air. You clawed at his arms, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, but it did nothing.

You couldn’t even hear yourself anymore. Your vision had stopped making sense a while ago. Everything was dull around the edges, your lungs screamed, throat crushed under the force that didn’t loosen no matter how hard your legs kicked or how your nails dug at the man’s arm.

Your vision had already started to darken at the edges, oxygen choking off, but the pressure on your throat vanished in an instant.

A crack of impact tore through the room, the man’s head jerked sideways violently. There was a sick, muted thump beneath it, the sound of something soft giving way.

Your knees hit the floor, followed by your palms, sucking in air so violently it burned like fire down your throat.

The bandit staggered, half his jaw hanging loose, the side of his face caved in where Joel’s baseball bat had connected as blood poured down his chest like paint.

Joel swung again, a vicious, two-handed strike that caught the man square in the face. The bat shattered, splinters raining down as the bandit reeled back, blood gushing from his shattered nose.

You stayed on your hands and knees, gasping for breath, the world tilting sideways as you watched Joel step forward, chest heaving.

He dropped the broken bat without a word and lunged. His hands gripped the man’s jacket, yanking him forward, slamming him down onto the ground with a sickening thud, one knee pinning the man’s shoulder, the other digging into his chest and bringing his fists down over and over again.

Blood splattered up Joel’s sleeves as his fists kept slamming down. Each hit was fueled by something deep and wild. Joel’s face twisted, lips curled back in a snarl, his teeth gritted. His fists kept flying, blood spattering across his forearms, painting the broken tile beneath them red.

The bandit was limp by the third punch, his face already unrecognizable, knuckles cracking against wet meat. Blood smeared Joel’s knuckles, dripped down his wrists.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, half-slumped against the wall, ears ringing and knees buckling, but it felt like the bones in your legs were no longer yours. Joel’s labored breaths were ragged, shoulder brushing brick, his posture hunched and brutal in the aftermath of the kill.

You turned your head away, cheek dragging over the soot-smeared concrete wall, a cold smear left behind from the sweat on your skin.

Your vision swam, too many colors, none of them real. The edges of your sight bloomed in watery halos that faded in and out. The blood rushing in your ears didn’t stop and your lungs still weren’t moving like they were supposed to. Each inhale felt like trying to suck air through a collapsed straw, the burn still flaring where that bastard’s grip had nearly crushed your windpipe.

You didn’t remember deciding to move. Your feet did it for you, more stumble than stride, shoulders scraping the wall as your boots found uneven purchase on the ruined hallway floor. Your left hand hovered, ready to catch the wall if your knees finally gave out, the other still trembled at your side.

You made it to the first door. Hinges long gone. Just a splintered frame and a half-hanging panel of rotted wood that you shouldered through like a drunk man. The room inside was a snapshot of nature reclaiming disaster, walls overtaken by thick curtains of ivy, damp moss blanketing what used to be wallpaper, the floor cracked wide enough in places to let thin tendrils of green poke through.

The air was damp and fungal, your boots left tracks in the damp dust. Motes danced in the shafts of light leaking through shattered slats of the blinds. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle, the old mattress stained and gray with mold. The once-white sheets had rotted into stiff brown paper.

It didn’t matter at the moment, you collapsed onto it. The mattress sank with a groan. You could feel the damp creep instantly through your pants. You let your body drop sideways first, knees angled, back hunched, then slowly, as breath permitted, you adjusted your weight until you were upright, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced to your knees, face buried in your palms.

The panting came back hard. You could hear the rasp of your own breath echoing in your hands. Every muscle in your back screamed in protest when you shifted, thighs trembling, ankles sore. Your ribs creaked when you inhaled too hard, your throat pulsed with angry red heat.

And in that stillness, one thought pushed through the haze like a flare: Where the fuck was Ellie?

You hadn’t seen or heard her.

Joel must’ve made her stay back. Probably barked it at her, harsh and firm, with that tone he saved for things that could end in blood and she would’ve listened. Because she trusted him.

God, you wanted him to really see you as someone who was capable, strong. Maybe not the strongest, not always the smartest, but brave. You wanted him to notice. But instead, you just saw that damn scowl and disappointment.

Your hands dropped from your face, fingertips brushing your thighs, legs screaming in protest the second you tried to push up. Knees quivering, calves unsteady, muscles like dead cords trying to pull you into a standing position and barely succeeding. You reached for the wall, both palms out like you were bracing for a blow, each footstep more a suggestion than a choice. When you finally got upright, you leaned into the nearest support beam hard, cheek pressing to the cool surface, one hand rising to your neck.

The door banged open behind you with the slam of wet wood on tile, your spine going stiff before your brain even caught up. You didn’t need to look to know it was Joel.

You could smell the blood and sweat and rain-soaked shirt, the copper tang of violence riding the heat radiating off his skin.

Whatever humanity had been left in them back in the lobby was gone now. His gaze burned through you like a brand, black with fury, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so hard the cords in his neck jumped with every shallow breath. Blood dripped from his knuckles, long ropes of it trailing down his forearms, some of it wet, still warm, some already drying dark and cracked over his skin like warpaint. Some droplets of blood were caught in his beard.

“Joel—”

Your voice cracked at the edges, hoarse, so brittle you could’ve sworn it fractured somewhere in your throat. You hadn’t meant for his name to sound like fear. But it did and the second the syllable left your lips, something in him snapped.

He moved fast. He crossed the ruined floor with brutal speed, fists still flexing.

His hands slammed against the wall on either side of your face, trapping you between arms that still trembled with rage. His body closed in, caging you like prey. The blood on his skin smeared against the plaster. His forehead didn’t touch yours but it hovered close enough that every pant hit your lips like fire, his chest brushing yours with the shallow rise and fall of each breath he forced through his nose.

“This what you want?” he spat, voice a sawblade through gravel, eyes burning holes into your skull. “That’s why you keep fuckin’ pullin’ this shit?”

The words came out like punches, venom and heat.

Of course he fucking knew. He always had. In a world like this, a true survivor like him learns to read people’s body languages. He knew you were gone for him.

You spent every goddamn day trying to prove to him you were worth the risk. That you could handle yourself.

He dipped forward suddenly, a grunt tearing from his chest and your body jolted when he flipped you around, palms slamming flat against the wall. Your cheek pressed to the cold surface as his chest crashed into your back with a weight that made your knees threaten to fold.

One of his hands, calloused and massive, slid from the wall to your hip, fingers digging in hard, blood-slick and unyielding. The other came up and gripped your jaw, pulling your head to the side, exposing your neck like prey to the butcher’s blade.

His beard scratched against your throat, dragging over tender skin like sandpaper and honey, sting and sweetness, it made your hands curl into fists against the wall.

His breath was hot, still panting hard from the man he killed for you, the steam of it soaking into the crook of your neck, heating your skin from the inside out.

He grunted, low and guttural, right against your throat.

He shoved his hips forward and you felt the huge bulge pressing right against the cleft of your ass. Hard and thick. You gasped again, breath catching in your throat, jaw clenched as your knees buckled under the weight of that reality.

“Quiet now,” he rasped, voice like thunder in the shell of your ear, “s’funny how fast you shut the fuck up when it counts. All that fuckin’ attitude and now I can’t even get a sound outta you.”

His beard scratched along your collarbone now, lips brushing where neck meets shoulder, breath coming in sharp huffs.

Another grunt. He pressed his hips in harder, letting you feel every goddamn inch of the hardness grinding against your ass.

His hand was under your shirt now. Crawling across your ribs, sticky with blood and gripping your waist with bruising force.

Those hands traveled lower, blood smeared in thick streaks as he reached down and grabbed your ass hard. Fingers biting deep into the flesh, spreading and squeezing until your breath left your lungs in one short, shattered gasp.

He groaned behind you, deep and wrecked and still full of that fire that hadn’t gone out.

Joel’s spit splattered slick into his palm, you could feel the rough grooves of his fingerprints as he circled slow at first, teasing the rim.

The scrape of his beard rasped against your neck, a brutal kiss dragging across your skin, scratching a red path beneath the surface. His mouth opened against the hinge of your jaw, teeth grazing enough to warn. Breath steamed, thick with the copper tang of blood and sweat as he pressed harder.

He grunted low, a guttural sound that vibrated straight through your spine as his thumb pressed forward, circling tighter now, insistently, pushing into resistance and feeling you clench around nothing. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, fists balled hard enough to make your knuckles ache.

His other hand found your hip again, gripping hard, squeezing down to bruise. His thumb breached you in one slow, brutal push, the blunt tip forcing your hole open, your breath catching sharp as you felt the stretch, raw and insistent.

He worked it deeper, knuckle grinding into your rim, twisting, pulling a grunt out of your chest that you couldn’t stifle. His beard rasped harder along your neck, biting into tender skin as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss there, sucking bruises into the curve where shoulder met throat.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he growled, his voice a stormcloud rumble, full of ash and threat. “Shoulda stopped wastin’ my fuckin’ breath screamin’ at you and just realize that all you needed was my cock stuffed so far down that smug throat you couldn’t say a fuckin’ word.”

His breath fogged hot against your skin as he pressed another finger in beside the first. Thicker now, the stretch sharper, the burn deeper.

You shuddered hard, hips rocking instinctively away from the pressure, but Joel’s grip snapped your body back against him, holding you flush, making you take every inch he forced inside.

“None of that,” he growled, breath breaking against the shell of your ear. “Gonna open you up good to take every fuckin’ inch I give you.”

The blunt force of his words punched straight to the pit of your gut, made your cock twitch even as your body trembled against the intrusion. His fingers scissored wider, dragging at the tender rim of your hole, making room where there hadn’t been enough.

The press of his body behind you felt like iron, solid and unyielding, decades of muscle and violence caging you in, heat rolling off him in waves thick enough to drown.

His fingers twisted deeper, hitting that spot that made your hips jerk, breath stuttering, a raw noise tearing from your throat that wasn’t a word, just heat and need given sound. He curled his fingers inside, dragging along the tender bundle of nerves again, grinding that spot until your knees buckled, hands scrabbling useless against the wall.

You could barely speak, the burn of the stretch making your thighs shake, your breath coming sharp and ragged. Joel’s free hand dragged up your side, palm rough with calluses, smearing sweat and blood in its path, then gripped the back of your neck, forcing your head down, making you arch your spine and push your hips back into his hand.

His fingers pulled free slowly, dragging wet and sticky from your hole, leaving it twitching, pulsing with the need to be filled again.

Joel grunted, shifting behind you, the scrape of his belt buckle loud in the quiet, the wet squelch of fabric pushed down over his thighs, heavy denim dragging rough along his skin.

You could feel the press of him, thick and hot.

“Breathe,” he growled, the word rough and commanding. “Ain’t gonna be gentle. You want this, you fuckin’ take it.”

He didn’t wait. His hips thrust forward hard, the fat head of his cock splitting you open with one brutal push, the thickness of him forcing your hole wider than his fingers ever could. The burn tore up your spine, sharp and blinding, breath stolen clean from your chest as he groaned deep.

“Fuck—” Joel rasped, voice breaking as he felt how tight you were around him, the squeeze of your body choking him, resisting him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he shoved deeper, inch by thick inch, forcing your body to stretch and take him.

The girth of him felt obscene, too much, scraping raw inside as he pressed forward, grunting with each shove, grinding his hips into your ass until you could feel the heavy drag of his balls against your skin.

Hips grinding slow to let you feel the full weight of him buried deep, stretching you open around the root of his cock. His beard scraped against your shoulder as he leaned in, breath panting hard against your skin, chest heaving with each ragged exhale.

His hips pulled back slowly, just the head dragging out, then slammed forward again, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, cock grinding deep, rearranging you from the inside out.

Each thrust punched a groan from your chest, made your hands claw at the wall, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucked you harder, rougher, cock driving so deep you could feel the press of him against your guts.

His body loomed behind, weight anchoring you in place, heat radiating from his sweat-slick skin, hot breath panting hard into the crook of your neck.

His cock dragged out of you slow, thick and deliberate, every inch pulling free with a wet slide that left your hole clenching. You could feel the swell of his tip flare wide at the rim, the drag of thick veins scraping raw along your insides as he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving you empty for a breathless second before his hips slammed forward again, splitting you open all over again.

“Fuckin’—tight,” Joel snarled low, voice shredded raw at the edges, chest heaving as he buried himself to the hilt, every thrust forcing the air from your lungs, cock grinding against that spot that made your legs buckle, stretching your guts around his cock like he meant to leave you gaping and ruined, filled with the shape of him.

His hand snapped up, rough fingers curling hard around your jaw, wrenching your head to the side with brutal force and crashing his mouth against yours, lips bruising, beard scraping hard enough to bite.

His tongue shoved deep between your teeth, invasive and desperate, claiming you from the inside out. His lips pressed hard, swallowing the broken moans spilling from your throat as he fucked you harder, cock grinding deep with every thrust.

Joel groaned into your mouth, voice rough and thick, tongue twisting deep as his cock hammered into you, every inch grinding against that tender spot that made your knees threaten to give. His hand gripped your jaw tight, holding you still as he kissed you like he meant to devour you, tongue fucking your mouth with the same brutal rhythm as his hips.

You could feel him swell inside you, the twitch of his cock as it throbbed thick, grinding deep as he panted against your lips, every muscle pulling tight as he barreled toward the edge.

Joel groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock pulsing thick inside you as he slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding hard, body shuddering as he spilled deep, filling you with the hot rush of his cum, thick and heavy, flood after flood of warmth filling you until it leaked out around the base and dripping down your thighs.

Joel’s breath stayed ragged against your lips, the weight of him grinding deep inside, his cock buried thick to the hilt, body pressed flush to yours.

The last pulsing throb of his cock inside you made your guts ache as he stayed there for a long moment, body locked solid, his head bowed forward against the back of your neck, breath heaving, beard rough and scratching as he rasped against your skin. His fingers twitched against your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

He dragged himself slowly from your body, the stretch of it pulling wet and thick from your hole, leaving you aching, raw and empty in its absence.

Joel’s breath hitched again as he stood back enough for the cool air to kiss the sweat streaked across your skin. His hands dropped from your waist, dragged roughly down your sides before falling away completely, leaving you trembling against the wall.

“Get dressed.” A command, not an offer. Joel shifted behind you, the sound of him tucking himself back into his jeans loud, followed by the snap of his belt buckle.

You turned your head enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. That old familiar scowl carving deeper into the lines of his face, like what had just happened between you was something he could shove down, bury beneath anger and the weight of survival.

You pushed off the wall slowly, body aching, the mess of him slick between your legs, the sting at your rim sharp where he’d worked you open. Your hands fumbled for your pants, tugging them up with fingers that still trembled, pulling cloth back over skin that felt too raw to cover.

Joel watched, but his gaze never lingered too long, never dipped back down your body. He turned away fast, grabbed his revolver, checked the chamber with a sharp, practiced motion.

“We ain’t stayin’ here.” His voice was steady now, pushing past what had happened like it hadn’t cracked something open between you both. “Too exposed.”

You nodded again, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, swallowing down the knot in your throat.

Joel lingered in the doorway, weight settling heavy in the frame, fingers flexing slowly over the worn strap of his rifle, jaw clenched so hard you could see the twitch in the muscle there, a silent warning.

“You so much as step outta line again,” Joel growled, voice rough enough to sand the edges off bone, “I’ll put you right back where you belong.” His stare didn’t waver. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Fuck if that didn’t drag up the old self, the cocky, reckless part of you that never knew when to leave well enough alone, a smirk creeping slow to the corner of your lips, small but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you.

You met his stare head-on, that grin flickering into place like a goddamn match strike. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t, even if you’d wanted to.

“Is that a promise?” You rasped, voice low, playful curling around the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, the scoff that rumbled out of him spoke louder than any words.

There was a shift at the corner of his mouth, subtle as the ghost of a breeze, a smile threatening to break out. It tugged faint at the rough line of his lips, there and gone, but you caught it. That flash of satisfaction threaded through the ironclad control he tried to keep wrapped tight around himself.

He crushed it down fast, that jaw clenching hard again, eyes flicking away as he shook his head. “Always gotta have the last word,” he grumbled, voice rough, annoyed, but the edge of warmth tucked so far down you almost missed it.

It was over, for now, but that flicker of a smile said he wouldn’t mind one bit if you gave him a reason to follow through on it.

But that was just a theory you elaborated.

Time to test it.

[kasha-formerlydrabbletastic]

Cute Suit

Steve Harrington x PlusSize!Reader x Eddie Munson

Summary: After Robin convinces the reader to buy a bikini, all of her insecurities come to roost as she's about to spend a day poolside with Steve and Eddie.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: MATURE 18+ MINORS DNI. Negative body image, insecurities, food mentions, embarrassment, group sex, P in V, oral (f rec), creampie, consumption of the creampie, face-sitting, casual mention of CBT.

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It's good to finally breathe, to feel the sunlight on your skin after days of being cooped up working in that godawful arcade or studying for this semester's final exams. Now that exams are over, and you have a whole weekend off from work, you sit on a lounge chair in Steve's backyard, waiting on him and Eddie to bring out drinks and snacks. The bikini you wear seems too tight, squeezing around your ribs and digging into the back of your neck; it's the first bikini you've ever owned, the brightly colored print of it catching your eye at the mall one day. Robin encouraged you to buy it, to expand your horizons after years of one-pieces covered by a t-shirt or basketball shorts and an unhealthy dose of shame in your own body.

"You deserve to wear cute things," she had insisted, knowing full well you'd been hiding the parts of you that society had deemed "unattractive" for years. "Don't let anyone else tell you different."

Bolstered by her confidence in you, you had plucked your size from the rack and paid for it with a smile.

In retrospect, given how you're feeling in the present, you could throttle Robin for daring to open her mouth about it, easy as it was for her to say with her conventionally good looks.

For a moment, you think about bolting, telling the boys that you're getting a headache or something. Your muscles tense, preparing to flee when you hear the door from the house open.

"That's all I'm saying," Steve says, a small cooler in one hand and sunscreen in the other. "Okay? You don't have to bite my head off about it."

"No one's biting your head off, princess," Eddie replies with a chuckle, carrying several bags of chips. "You can relax."

They head toward you, still bickering about god knows what as they settle the cooler and snacks on the lounge chair next to you, oblivious to your discomfort.

"Exactly," you say after clearing the anxiety from your throat. "Just relax, guys."

Eddie squats down onto the concrete next to you before plopping down on his backside. Steve simply stands there, contemplating the order with his lips pressed into a thin line before he closes his eyes and shakes his head.

"You're right," he concedes, running a hand through his hair. He grabs the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up over his head before dropping it onto another chair.

The cut-up band t-shirt that Eddie wears goes missing too before he kicks off his boots and stands to take his jeans off.

Both of them stand before you, Steve in his swim trunks and Eddie in his boxers, looking the picture of conventionally attractive males. Steve has always been a babe, and even if Eddie was considered a "freak," without his clothes, his slightly slim, toned body could probably be featured on a magazine somewhere.

You pull your arms tighter around yourself, keeping your knee-length wrap closed over your folly of a choice in bathing suit.

"Come on," Eddie says to you.

"What?" you reply.

"We're going swimming," he laughs, offering his hand. "Come on. Take that thing off and come get wet with us."

You chuckle, feeling heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun.

"Robin told me you got a cute suit," Steve adds with a sly smile. "Let's see it."

"You guys go ahead without me. I'm just gonna sit here for a minute."

"I wanna see a cute suit," Eddie says, his eyes dropping immediately to your body, not quite helping the situation.

"I'm just gonna sit for a minute," you repeat, your smile fading. "Just leave it."

Eddie and Steve glance at each other before Eddie says, "What's going on, sweetheart?"

You squirm under their gazes, both concerned and furrowing their brows. Getting to your feet, too, you tighten your grip on your cover-up with one hand and tug the bikini top away from your neck with the other.

"It's... it's nothing," you reply.

"You don't get this worked up for nothing," Steve answers.

"It doesn't matter," you insist, still tugging at the bikini string before you grumble.

"Is that bothering you?" Eddie asks, coming closer, his hand grabbing yours gently and looking at your neck. "You might've gone too tight with this, sweets."

"How else was I gonna get it to stay up?" you murmur. "Not that it matters anyway. I shouldn't be wearing it in the first place."

Eddie glances at Steve, eyebrows ruffled in confusion.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks cautiously.

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you look between your friends, annoyed at yourself for folding under their utter concern.

"What I mean is that I'm too fat to wear this and was absolutely kidding myself when I bought it. I could kill Robin."

"Woah, woah, woah," Eddie says, just after the key word of the sentence. "Let's hit the brakes here. Who said you were fat? Cuz I'll kill 'em."

You chuckle for a second before shaking your head. "No, Eds. I said I'm fat. I should've just stuck to the usual t-shirt and shorts and had done with it. Now I'm embarrassing myself in front of you guys."

"No," Steve says. "None of that. None of that horseshit trash talk. You can't talk about yourself like that."

"Easy for you to say," you strike back. "Easy for you both to say. Look at you guys!"

Steve and Eddie look each other up and down, and before Steve gets to deliver his very serious tough-love speech, Eddie grins.

"Are you saying we're hot?" he asks, tilting his head up just a little. "Are friends allowed to call each other hot?"

Steve stares, confused before it clicks in his brain what Eddie is doing.

"I think she's calling us hot, Eddie," he says, running his fingers through his hair once more.

"Oh, good," Eddie replies, getting closer to you again. "Because guess fucking what?"

"What?" you say.

Eddie's grin maxes out just under his eyes as his fingers slide down to the opening of your cover up.

"You also happen to be very hot, babes."

Nothing Eddie could've said could have made you sputter into laughter quite like this. Nothing you could've done could ever make the smile slip away from his face so suddenly. The two look at you, both serious as death.

"Why are you laughing?" Steve asks.

"You guys are just saying that," you reply. "You don't have to do that, okay? You're just trying to make me feel better."

Eddie shakes his head as he gently grabs you by the shoulders. "Do you have any idea what I'd do to you if you let me?"

This question is, for all intents and purposes, the wall that the laughter crashes into; the utter seriousness in Eddie's newest expression cues the silence, not another word coming out of you for the absolute shock. You look at Steve, though, who's gotten closer, too.

Steve nods. "He's actually told me about some of those things. And you know what I said to him?"

You shake your head.

"I told him I'd do it, too."

"What?" you say in a confused whimper.

"He told me some of the things he'd do to you," Steve says slower, "and I said that I'd. Do. It. Too."

Eddie slowly releases your shoulders, and you stand there, utterly confounded by their admission. They step back a couple inches before Eddie's smile makes a comeback.

"Now that we've got that taken care of," he says, "let's go for a swim."

He doesn't say anything else before he turns away, strutting toward the pool.

"Wait!" you say, gathering yourself just before he jumps in. "What the hell. You guys think I'm hot? Since when?"

"How about this?" Steve says, meeting Eddie over the concrete deck. "You take off that thing so we can see your cute suit and we'll tell you how long we've had the hots for you."

For a second, your fingers tighten over the fabric once more before you take a deep breath. You don't know if you're simply softening to the idea of it or if you're desperate to know just how long it's been that you've joined the ranks of all the girls they've been with, but you finally tug the cover up down, letting it pool around your feet.

"Well, look what we have here," Eddie says, his eyes slowly taking you in from head to toe.

"Fuck," Steve sighs.

"Oh, god," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "It can't look that good."

"It looks very good," Eddie says, but he wags his pointer finger at you. "Although, there's one way I would improve the look over all."

"Oh yeah? And how's that?"

Eddie and Steve lock eyes for a moment before they step toward you once more. Eddie positions himself behind you and Steve steadies himself before you, his pretty brown eyes staring down his nose at you. Given their proximity and the subject matter at hand, your nerves goad your heart into a break neck pace.

"Do you trust us?" Eddie murmurs, leaning down so the ends of his hair sweep over your shoulder, his breath along your skin warmer than the air around you.

"Yes," you answer on a breath of your own.

You watch Steve's eyes as they apparently lock onto Eddie's, his head dipping in a subtle nod before you feel Eddie's fingers against the knot on your back. Before you can say anything, he tugs the knot free, the strings swaying over your back before he does the same to the knot on your neck. Your arms bolt up to keep the bikini over your chest for just a moment before Steve stops you.

"Don't be afraid, babe," he mutters, his fingers gently pulling yours out of their fists; you reluctantly release the fabric as Steve takes your hands into his. The top falls to the concrete below. "That's our girl."

Your mouth is dry with anxiety as Steve glances down, his tongue darting over his lips.

"So, is that, um.... is that it?" you say, your skin tingling in the sun.

"Nope," Eddie says so close to your ear you can feel his lips graze your skin. "We've got one more thing. Stevie?"

Steve grins, pulling your hands back until Eddie takes them from him. Now free, his drop to your ample hips, tugging the strings on either side until the bottoms fall loose, too.

"There we go," he says, tugging the bottoms from between your legs and dropping them.

"You're a fucking goddess," Eddie utters, his chest pressed against your back. "I don't give a fuck how much you weigh."

"Oh, god," you sigh as Steve's fingers trace the curve of your hips down onto your thighs. "So, um.... how long?"

"Years," Steve says, his fingers grazing so close to your heat.

"Fucking years," Eddie agrees. "God, I've been dying for this moment since junior high."

He presses his hips against you, his utter arousal poking into your backside.

"Not fair," you mutter as Eddie pulls your arms up and joins your hands behind his neck. Steve's hands brush up your tummy, along the underside of your breast.

"What's not fair?"

"Why am I the only one naked?"

"Because if we were gonna get naked too," Steve begins, gently teasing your nipple, "that would be just too much hotness in the world. I don't think they can handle that."

You chuckle. "Shithead."

Eddie laughs too as he places an open-mouthed kiss on your neck. You hum with satisfaction, the sensations reaching down your body to settle in your cunt.

"Seriously," you say, barely grasping at your brain's ability to think of anything past these unexpected sensations and moving your hand to the waistband of Steve's swim trunks. "If I'm gonna be naked, so are you guys."

Your eyes meet Steve's as he smirks, your fingertips dipping past his waistband.

"Go on, sweetheart," Eddie goads in your ear before nibbling your earlobe. "Reach down and see what Harrington's got in those shorts."

If the forest on his chest is any indication, it stands to reason that he's just as hairy everywhere; your fingers meet the evidence, gently combing through his pubic hair before you meet the base of his shaft. He's half-hard as your fingers slowly curl around his cock, and you gasp in surprise as they barely complete the circle around it.

"Fucking hell," you murmur, stroking it slowly.

"You got that right," Steve breathes, eyes dropping to where you touch him, watching you bring him to full mast.

Your other hand reaches back, catching on Eddie's boxers and discovering just how hard he is underneath; he groans in your ear as you pull so sweetly on his cock.

"So," you say, feeling as though you've gotten some semblance of control over the situation with the boys' most sensitive parts in the palms of your hands. "What was it you wanted to do to me?"

"I wanna wear your thighs like ear muffs," Eddie replies, the words almost tripping out of his mouth.

"I've been thinking a lot - fuck! - about bending you over and fucking you while I watch your ass jiggle," Steve admits. "Jesus Christ, I love your ass."

"Sit on my face."

"Ride me until I scream."

"Peg me."

"Just about anything."

"Wouldn't mind some light cock and ball torture."

You pause, hands freezing around both cocks as you and Steve turn to look at Eddie.

"What?" he says defensively. "Don't yuck my yum, dude. Steve said just about anything. Doesn't that cover some CBT?"

You giggle, letting Steve pull your hand from his tented swim trunks before he slides them off.

"Fine, let her squish your balls later," Steve replies. "Right now is all about her."

"Fair enough," Eddie says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

Steve's hand comes to rest around the side of your neck, then gently pulls you closer; your peaked nipples brush against his chest hair, sending a tingle along your skin.

"Down on the lounge chair," he says, his lips brushing yours.

He's gentle as he guides you to your seat, kneeling beside you and pressing his lips to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips...

"Relax, babes," Eddie says. "Just remember, let us know if anything gets too intense or you want to stop, okay?"

"Yeah," Steve murmurs, his hands cradling your head. "We'll do anything you want and stop anything you don't."

You sigh the moment you feel Eddie's lips press against your ankle, warm and soft and trailing up the inside of your leg. He's slow about it, taking his time like a tourist to enjoy the view of you.

Steve, on the other hand, places his lips along your jaw, kissing his way down your neck before nibbling at your collar bones.

It's almost too long before the two meet in the middle, and you are certain they've coordinated their attack as Eddie's hands press your legs open, his fingers gliding along your dewy lips. Steve's mouth suckles at one of your nipples as his fingers reach down to circle your clit.

"Oh, fuck," you sigh, pleasure tingling from your core outward.

Eddie presses a finger inside to start, adding another when he decides it's not enough.

"Look at this body," Steve says against your skin, kissing down your sternum. "Look how fucking gorgeous she is."

Their tandem efforts make you squirm in delight, your hips starting to press up against them.

"And to think you were just gonna hide all this from us," Eddie says, curling his fingers inside you. "Babes, you must be out of your mind if you think you're not an absolute fucking catch. Look at these curves."

"And so soft, baby," Steve continues. "What I wouldn't give to hold you against me. What I wouldn't give to fuck this goddess in front of me."

All their sweet words, the worship of their fingers builds inside you, fuels the utter blaze of hormones and ecstasy blossoming through your blood.

"I'm so close," you whimper, writhing under them.

"You wanna come, baby?" Steve says, scooping your head into his free hand and tilting it up toward his face. "Is that what you want?"

"Fuck, yes," you reply against his mouth, your fingers digging into the arms of the lounge chair beneath you.

"I wanna feel it, babe," Eddie says. "I want you to squeeze my fingers tight, you hear me?"

The mental wherewithal to reply has scattered in the breeze, lost to you as Steve and Eddie double their efforts; Eddie curls his fingers inside and brings the other up to press on your lower tummy, as Steve plays your clit to perfection, sliding his tongue into your mouth with a filthy kiss.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" you whine as your climax bursts from your core, your body going rigid as the boys work you through it.

"There we go," Eddie praises. "That's our girl."

"I need to fuck you," Steve says as soon as you start to come down. "Come here."

He pulls you off the lounge chair, and Eddie follows; Steve positions you on your knees on the concrete as Eddie sits close, facing you and grinning wide. His hand curls around his cock, stroking himself as he watches Steve bend you over. Steve runs his hands along your spine, rubbing the expanse of your ass before he grips it tight.

"Oh my god," you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as Steve presses into you; he goes slow, his girthy cock splitting your cunt in two, filling you up like nothing as before.

"Oh fuck," Steve breathes when he's fully seated. "God, baby, you feel so good."

"I bet it feels better if you're moving," Eddie offers, taking you by the chin to bring you in for a kiss.

Steve takes his advice, pulling out to push back in. You almost yelp when his cock kisses your cervix. It takes him a few pumps, but he gathers momentum, fucking into you like his life depends on it.

"Look at you," Eddie coos. "Getting fucked by Monster-Cock Harrington. I bet that pussy feels so good right now, doesn't it, baby?"

"Yes," you whimper, "oh, fuck yes."

"He can't stop staring at your ass, babes," he tells you, releasing his cock to play with your nipples. "Who can blame him? I'd use that luscious ass as a pillow if I could. So fucking soft."

"Fuck," Steve groans, picking up speed.

"Looks like he might come soon. All because of that gorgeous ass, that sexy pussy." Eddie grabs you by the chin again, forcing you to look at him. "You see how fucking beautiful you are? And to think, you didn't want to show us your bathing suit."

"Fuck, I'm gonna -" Steve huffs out. "Where?"

"Where do you want it, baby?" Eddie asks.

"Inside, Steve!" you cry out, close to your own orgasm as you reach a hand down to your clit. "Come inside me, please!"

"Fuck, that's hot," Eddie says. "You gonna come with him, baby? Come around Stevie's massive cock."

You burst with pleasure once again, your orgasm radiating through your body before Steve stutters to a groaning stop.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," he whispers, pressing his pelvis against your ass.

"You stay just like that, babes," Eddie says, kissing you quickly before getting to his hands and knees. He crawls over the concrete as Steve pulls out of you.

Before you know it, Eddie's laying down underneath you, positioning your cunt over his face as Steve comes around to face you. The latter's face is red, covered in a sheen of sweat, and still beautiful. He smiles, sitting down before you just as Eddie's mouth makes contact.

"Ah!" you gasp as Eddie's tongue glides through the absolute mess that Steve left behind.

"Eddie's gonna clean you up nice and good," Steve promises before he settles your hands on his thighs and leans in for a kiss. "You're such a good girl for us, aren't you? So fucking pretty."

You moan into his mouth as Eddie laps up your arousal, feasting on your pussy.

"I don't want to hear you talking bad about yourself like that again, you hear me?"

You gaze into his eyes, big, brown, and beautifully sincere.

"I hear you," you answer softly.

"And if you ever forget," he continues with a grin, "well, we'll just have to remind you, won't we?"

Eddie focuses his efforts on your clit, sucking as he slips his fingers inside you. His free hand reaches around your thigh, pulling you closer to him, and you moan into the air between you and Steve. You feel the vibrations of Eddie's moan, too, reverberating through your core.

"There you go, babes," Steve says. "Let him make you feel good. You deserve it. You deserve it so much."

Another climax begins to build, and you begin to grind on Eddie's face, your fingers digging into Steve's thighs.

"One more, baby," Steve insists, and it's all you need before you're plummeting into ecstasy one more time.

You nearly collapse to the concrete, overwhelmed yet perfectly satisfied.

"I gotta finish Eddie," you say through your heavy breathing, but don't get very far when he comes into view with a bashful expression.

"To be honest," he says, wiping off his face, "I kinda blew my load a little while ago." He points to the cum trail along his stomach. "Like, just after I put my fingers inside you."

You and Steve hold eye contact for just a second before you giggle.

"Don't. Don't laugh at me. It's your fault, anyway."

"My fault?" you say over Steve's laughter. "How?"

"You're hot, like I said."

"Shut up," you say, blushing into your hands.

He pulls your hands away from your face, smiling at you like you put the sun in the sky.

"Never."

[b1eedthefreak]

Puda

daryl x hispanic!reader

thank you guys so much for the support on the first one! :)

p.s i included translation on this one so you can learn spanish too!

⸻

The Alexandria library wasn’t exactly Barnes & Noble material, but you’d managed to clear out a table near the back, stacking a few Spanish workbooks, a translation dictionary, and of course, a notebook with sparkly pink hearts doodled all over it. You’d told Daryl it was for note-taking. He’d said it looked like it belonged to Judith. You’d said “Well Judith learns better than you, so maybe take notes.”

Now, you sat across from him, legs curled under your chair, twirling a pen and watching as Daryl squinted down at the flashcard in his hand like it had insulted his mother.

“Conejo,” (bunny) you said slowly. “Like… bunny. Rabbit.”

Daryl grunted, eyes narrowing.

“Co…co…najo?”

“Conejo.” You leaned forward with a smile. “Try again.”

“Co-ne-jo,” he mumbled under his breath, like the word physically hurt him to say. “Shit sounds fake.”

You laughed, nudging his boot under the table.

“It’s not fake Daryl, it’s a real word. You’re just mad ‘cause it has a ‘j’ in it and your southern ass can’t handle it.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with my ass,” he grumbled.

“Oh? I like your ass.” You leaned over the table, resting your chin in your palm. “Your accent? I dunno… a little sketchy.”

He glared at you, flipping through the flashcards like they personally betrayed him. You were biting back your grin when you saw him mouth “Hola,” then grimace like he’d swallowed a bug.

“Language is romantic,” you said, spinning your pen between your fingers. “I just want you to know my world too.”

“Your world’s full’a words I can’t say.”

“But you’re tryin’ baby,” you cooed, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “And that’s why I love you.”

He softened instantly. You watched his ears turn pink. Victory.

A few hours later, the two of you were bumping down a backroad in a dusty old truck, out on a mission to scout a potential supply stash just outside town. Carol had mentioned a rundown gas station near the old highway that no one had touched yet.

You had your boots on the dashboard, fingers tapping to some faint music you’d found on an old CD.

“How do you say gas station?” he asked suddenly.

You smiled.

“Estación de gasolina.”

He blinked at you. “Estawhatnow?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The gas station was mostly looted and falling apart, but you spotted a half-crushed magazine rack wedged behind a toppled soda fridge. And there they were—three beat-up, barely-holding-together comic books.

“Carl is gonna lose his mind,” you whispered, clutching them to your chest like gold.

You didn’t hear the walker until it was too late. It had been jammed between the cooler and the wall, half-smashed, but not dead. Its arm shot out, grabbing your wrist with a sickening crack of its rotted bones. You let out a scream, twisting, nearly falling backwards,

And then Daryl’s knife came down.

Straight into its skull.

You stumbled back, panting hard, clutching the comics with trembling hands. Daryl stood over the body, chest heaving, face twisted in fury.

“TAKE THAT YOU DAMN… PUDA!!”

Silence.

You blinked.

“…What?”

He straightened up, all proud and puffed-up, like he’d just done something impressive.

“That’s right. I know a lil’ Spanish.”

You stared at him.

And then you burst out laughing. Like full on, tears down yourface, doubled over kind of laughing. The kind that made your ribs ache and your knees go weak.

“Puda?” you wheezed.

Daryl scowled. “That’s what I said.”

“You said puda. That’s not even a word Daryl!”

“Well, whatever it means, she’s dead.”

You were crying-laughing now, trying not to drop the comics, still trembling from the adrenaline.

“Ay Dios mío…” (Oh my Goodness…) you muttered, wiping your eyes. “You can’t just yell fake cuss words at walkers Daryl.”

“Can if they’re tryin’ to eat you,” he muttered, walking ahead like he wasn’t secretly flustered.

You jogged after him, tucking the comics into your bag, still giggling.

That night back in Alexandria, you curled up with him in your shared bed, legs tangled, soft pillows around you, and a warm, beat up old Spanish textbook on your lap.

You pointed to a sentence.

“Okay, this one says: ‘Quiero estar contigo para siempre.’ Know what that means?”

“Mm…” He squinted. “Somethin’ about wantin’ to eat rabbits forever?”

You snorted, smacking his shoulder gently.

“It means I want to be with you forever, Dixon.”

Daryl gave a soft little hum and kissed your temple.

“Yeah? Well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And he wasn’t. Not even if the pudas came back.

⸻

a/n okay so this was supposed to be posted days ago i actually forgot this was in my drafts MY DEEPEST APOLOGIES DARYL NATION

[fandoms-x-reader]

Small but Hungry

Requested By: @ricaaathelittlelamb

Word Count: 1,858

Height can be deceiving. That was a hard lesson the seven demon brothers were learning.

You were a small human and because of that, they believed you didn’t require as much food. They wanted to be sure though, so they turned to Satan who promptly pulled out his book on humans. Their theory was confirmed when the book had a passage stating humans shouldn’t eat as much food as demons. So, they were all in agreement that they shouldn’t overfeed you.

Since you came to the Devildom, they had been feeding you small portions. You never complained about being hungry and you never asked for more food, so they never knew that they were doing something wrong.

Then, you all took a trip to the human world. It was more like a business trip than a vacation, so you were only up there for a day. And, the day was nearly over when Lucifer offered to pay for everyone’s dinner.

The group decided to eat at a steakhouse and your stomach was immediately growling as soon as you began reading the menu. How long had it been since you had human world food? It was a rare occasion in the Devildom.

One by one, the demon brothers ordered the dishes they wanted, starting with Lucifer and ending with Belphie. Finally, it was your turn. You placed the menu down before confidently telling the waiter, “Could I have the full rack of ribs please?” 

There was a moment of silence as you handed the waiter your menu. When you returned your attention back to the others, you were met with all seven staring at you, their eyes slightly wider than normal.

“What?” you asked innocently. They all quickly brushed it off. They didn’t want you to think they were judging you in any way, because they weren’t. They loved you in every way, and they would never think negatively of you. They were just a bit confused by how much food you ordered.

Lucifer couldn’t help but wonder if you were maybe trying to impress them with the amount of food you could eat. That was the only reason he could imagine you would order such a large amount of food.

Mammon was in sheer confusion. A human as small as you couldn’t possibly eat that much food. So, why did you decide to order that of all things? Mammon began to question himself. Clearly, he had to be missing something.

Levi couldn’t help but feel on edge. Were you planning something? Were you stocking up on food in case of an emergency? Levi wouldn’t judge you. He had rations in his room for the same reason. But…ribs? Weren’t there better things to store for later?

Satan’s mind immediately went to his books. He wished they were there with him so he could read about this. Was there something special about ribs that allowed humans to eat more than they normally would?

Asmo was a bit worried about you. Were you stressed or upset? Is that why you wanted to eat such a large portion of food? He didn’t want you to be bloated from overeating. He would watch you carefully while you ate to make sure this wasn’t the case.

Beel knew best what it was like to be hungry. But, even if you were starving, a full rack seemed like a lot of food for such a small human. He wasn’t worried about it though. Whatever you didn’t eat he would finish for you.

Belphie believed you were messing with them. It had to be a joke and any second you were going to change your mind and ask for a smaller plate. If it was a prank, he had to admit that you got them all pretty good.

When the food came, all seven of them were surprised at how big the platter was. Now they doubted your abilities even more.

“That’s a lot of food,” Beel stated, staring at the food. You smiled at him in response and Mammon questioned, “Are ya’ really going to eat all of that?” “Of course,” you replied, completely unaffected by the size of the platter.

The brothers felt like they were transported to another realm. Their minds were racing at a hundred miles per hour. They were too stunned to eat their own food. Instead, they watched you eat yours with curiosity.

You finished the ribs quickly and when you were done you licked the remainder of the sauce off of your fingers. A loud belch escaped from your lips and your hand moved up to cover your mouth.

“Excuse me,” you said gently, noticing the way all of the brothers were staring at you. You didn’t pay any attention to it though as you politely excused yourself from the table to go freshen up in the bathroom.

If you were trying to impress him and his brothers, you succeeded with flying colors. You ate those ribs with such ease, he couldn’t believe it.

Lucifer immediately began questioning his decision to feed you small portions in the Devildom. If he had known you could eat this much, he never would have limited you on the amount of food you could have.

He thinks about punishing Satan for giving him false information about the amount of food humans can eat. But, then he realizes it isn’t Satan’s fault but the author of the book.

He debates going after the author but decides an easier way to mend the situation they were currently in is by making sure you never felt like you couldn’t eat the same amount of food in the Devildom.

From now on, he’ll ensure you get as much food as you want before his brothers get their plates, especially Beel.

Whaaa?

You ate all of those ribs without even trying! You didn’t even break a sweat or look like you were slowing down at any point.

How could such a small creature eat so much food?!

But, wait…did that mean this whole time you weren’t getting enough food? He and his brothers must have looked like such jerks for only feeding you small portions.

Why didn’t you ever ask for more food? Were you just trying to be nice?

Regardless of your reasons, Mammon was your first man and your protector in every sense of the word. Which meant it was up to him to help take care of you.

He promises there will never be another night in the Devildom where you go hungry. He’ll make sure of it. 

It was quite the sight to watch for Levi. He had seen some of his favorite characters in anime eating in the same manner you just displayed. But, he never thought he would 

experience the sight in person.

He thought the anime exaggerated how much one person could eat. He believed they might be trying to represent or make fun of his little brother’s never-ending appetite.

But, now he felt like his whole world had been shaken. This whole time it was real?! Humans could actually eat that much?!

Levi is now curious to find out what else was real in anime. He’ll be attached to you for the next week or so as he watches you closely to see if you mimic any of the other actions he’s seen his beloved characters do.

He’ll also offer you food whenever the two of you are hanging out. He tells you it’s to keep your strength up, but in reality, he feels a bit guilty that they hadn’t been feeding you properly for a while now.

Satan felt the most guilty about the situation. After all, his brothers had turned to him for advice on how to feed you. 

Had he read his book wrong? No, he was positive that’s what the book said. So, then the book was wrong. For the first time in his life, a book had given him false information.

Satan was now questioning the integrity of some of the other books he had read on humans. He decided he would conduct his own experiments to find out the truth about you.

He would never chance your well-being on the words of a book again. Instead, if he’s curious, he’ll approach you directly and ask you whatever question is on his mind.

He’ll also make sure that you always have enough food. He’ll even secretly take note of which foods you prefer over others.

And, when that food is on the menu for dinner, he’ll make sure you get an extra serving or two just to make you happy.

You didn’t look stressed or upset in any way when you were eating the ribs. In fact - you looked completely satisfied.

Asmo was so relieved that you weren’t suffering in any way. But, at the same time, he was also concerned about their past actions.

He looked through his memories of you at the House of Lamentation, specifically at meal times, and he can’t remember you ever looking so satisfied.

He started freaking out at the possibility of you going to bed hungry every night you were in the Devildom and he immediately began planning out a way to make it up to you.

Not eating enough was just as unhealthy as overeating and Asmo wanted you at your very best.

He’ll work with you to make you more comfortable with telling the brothers when you’re still hungry so that this never happens again.

Beel was ecstatic when he saw that you were able to finish the entire rack of ribs. It was just one more thing that made you special to him.

He began to question what else you could eat a lot of. Was it only certain things or was it everything? Did you eat the same amount of food when it came to items from the Devildom?

Wait…

Now that he was thinking about it - had they been starving you?! Hunger is Beel’s ultimate weakness so the idea of you being hungry every day because of them made him a mix of angry and sad.

Beel would make sure to pile your plate with food at meal times and he’ll always offer you snacks during the day.

He would make sure to save enough for himself, but he wanted to make sure you were taken care of too.

You did it? You actually finished the entire plate?

Belphie is completely shocked. He didn’t believe for one second that it would be possible.

And what’s more, is that you ate them so quickly as if the amount had no effect on you. 

It was impressive, to say the least, and now he was glaring at all of his older brothers.

They had been feeding you the same amount of food since before he escaped the attic. So when Belphie got out, he thought it was normal.

Did none of them do their research on humans?! It clearly wasn’t enough food for you!

Belphie would no longer trust his brothers to take proper care of you. He would do everything himself from now on.

It was the only way he could guarantee your health.

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎ 05⠀ ⸻ shades of cool / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (20), mentions of military, training, suggestive behaviour.

♡ notie note . . . thanks to my bf 4 the inspo<3

Rafe barely noticed the sunlight. He sat on the edge of the sectional couch in the living room, his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced tightly together. His black compression shirt clung to his muscled frame, the fabric stretching over the tattoos snaking down his arms.

Last night’s conversation with Y/N had left him uneasy, her words about Ethan’s sick obsession looping in his mind like a war drum. The photos, the messages, the violation of her home—it had lit a fire in him, a need to do more than just stand guard.

He couldn’t erase her fear, but he could give her power and teach her to fight back. If that bastard came for her again, she’d be ready.

He’d make sure of it.

He glanced toward the balcony, where Y/N stood.

She was in a loose white tee and tiny athletic shorts, her hair pulled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She gripped the railing, her shoulders rising and falling as she took deep, deliberate breaths, like she was trying to anchor herself to the world. Rafe’s chest tightened at the sight—her fragility, her strength, the way she carried both like a tightrope walker.

He stood, his boots silent on the floor, and cleared his throat.

“Y/N,” he called. “I’m gonna teach you some self-defense today. Let’s go. You’ve got a gym here, time to use it.”

She turned, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Self-defense?” she said, crossing her arms, her lips pursing in a pout that was equal parts adorable and infuriating. “I don’t need that. I broke Ethan’s nose, remember? I can handle myself.”

He rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips as he closed the distance between them. “Yeah, you mentioned. Come on, kid, humor me.”

He didn’t wait for her to agree, just nodded toward the gym door and started walking, his tone leaving no room for argument. She huffed, muttering something about “overbearing bodyguards,” but followed, her bare feet slapping the floor, her pout deepening with every step.

The penthouse gym was small but sleek, with a treadmill, a rack of weights, and a padded mat in the center that smelled faintly of rubber and sweat. Rafe dropped his water bottle by the door and turned to face her, his arms crossed, his blue eyes locking onto hers.

“Alright, show me how you hit him,” he said, tapping his chest. “Come on, kid. Let’s see that knockout punch.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she squared her shoulders, her small frame radiating defiance. She balled her fist, her pink-painted nails digging into her palm, and swung at his chest. Her knuckles connected with a dull thud, and she yelped, shaking her hand out, her face scrunching in pain. “Ow! God, what are you made of, concrete?”

Rafe chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Ethan was easier, huh?” he said, his smirk softening as he caught her wrist gently, inspecting her reddened knuckles. “You’re punching with your thumb tucked in. That’s why it hurts. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand on that creep’s face.”

She muttered under her breath, something about “stupid muscles,” and pulled her hand back, her pout returning full force. But there was a spark in her eyes now, a flicker of curiosity, and Rafe seized it.

He stepped onto the mat, motioning her to follow.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m teaching you how to do it right. You’re small, but that’s an advantage if you know how to use it.”

He started with the basics, his voice calm but commanding, the same tone he’d used to train recruits in the military. He showed her how to form a proper fist: thumb outside, knuckles aligned, and how to throw a punch from her core, not just her arm.

“Hit here,” he said, pointing to his jaw, then his throat, his ribs. “Weak spots. Doesn’t matter how big the guy is—if you hit right, he’s going down.”

He demonstrated how to use her size, how to duck and weave, how to slip under an attacker’s arm, and strike where it hurt most. Y/N caught on fast, her focus intense despite her earlier protests. She was a natural, her dancer’s grace translating into quick footwork, her small fists snapping with surprising force.

They practised for an hour, sweat beading on her forehead, her bun loosening until strands of hair clung to her neck. Rafe pushed her, but not too hard, his eyes tracking her every move, noting the way her confidence grew with each strike. At some point, the tension between them shifted, her laughter bubbled up when she landed a solid hit to his palm, and he grinned, a rare, genuine smile that made his scars feel less heavy.

“Not bad,” he said, catching her wrist after a particularly quick jab. “You might actually survive a fight.”

She stuck out her tongue, playful now, and lunged at him in a mock attack. He caught her easily, using her momentum to spin her, and before either of them realized it, she was on top of him.

They hit the mat with a soft thud, Y/N straddling his lap, her hands braced on his chest.

Her breath hitched, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Rafe froze, his hands instinctively settling on her waist, the heat of her body seeping through his fingers. Up close, she was breathtaking; her eyes wide and bright, her lips parted, glossy and pink, her hair a wild halo around her face. Her tee had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone, and her shorts rode up, exposing the smooth length of her thighs. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, a rush of heat flooding his veins, his pulse hammering in his ears.

She was so close, her breath mingling with his, her scent—lavender and something sweet, like vanilla—filling his senses.

He saw it in her eyes too, the way they darkened, the way her lips trembled as she leaned closer, her gaze flicking to his mouth. Her chest rose and fell, brushing against him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, her lips inches from his, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath.

He wanted it, wanted her, more than he’d wanted anything in years, the pull magnetic, dangerous, like a grenade with the pin half-out. But then his mind flashed to her tears, her fear, the messages on her phone, the monster hunting her.

She was vulnerable, and he was her protector, not some guy who could cross that line. He pulled back, his hands sliding off her waist, his jaw tight as he cleared his throat.

“We should, uh, wrap this up,” he said, too fast. “You need a shower. I’ve gotta get you to the agency by noon.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes dropping as she scrambled off him, scratching the back of her neck.

“Right,” she mumbled, her voice small, embarrassed. She stood, brushing her hands on her shorts, avoiding his gaze. “Shower. Agency. Got it.”

Rafe stood too, his heart still pounding, his hands flexing at his sides to shake off the feel of her.

He wanted to say something, to ease the awkwardness, but the words wouldn’t come.

She’d felt it too, but now wasn’t the time. Not with her fear still raw.

He watched her walk away, her shoulders hunched, her steps quick, and he cursed himself for letting it get that close.

And Rafe knew, deep in his gut, that keeping his distance was going to be the hardest fight of his life.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[revelboo]

True Romance Pt 7

Seeker Trine x Reader

18+ content

• “I can do it myself!” You hiss, flight or fight fully triggered as you try to launch yourself out of Skywarp’s servos and back to the safety of the desk. Knowing full well that’s there’s nowhere to hide and that one of them is just going to catch you again. That you’re probably the equivalent of a talking hamster to them, but still. You can’t make yourself cooperate for community shower time and being gawked at naked by the three of them. What little pride you have left from being a glorified pet, is screaming at you to the tune of death before dishonor.

• Even though the fall isn’t that high, when you launch yourself out of his servos, hit the desk, stumble and fall, then immediately bolt, Skywarp’s spark constricts. “This isn’t negotiable, you stink,” he snarls, shaking off the worry that you might have broken one of those tiny bones. Wings flared out in embarrassment because Star and TC are watching you evade him. Because for being so tiny, you can move when you’re properly motivated.

• “Enough,” Starscream vents tiredly as Thundercracker fidgets beside him, wanting to intervene. He really didn’t think you’d get so distraught about being washed, but Skywarp has a point. “Come here.” Shouldering up beside Skywarp, he lays his palm on the desk and glowers down at you. Watching you raggedly breathe, body tense and those eyes angry. “Now, little one.” And shoulders slumping, you slowly approach him and rock to a stop in front of his servos. Refusing to climb into his palm in one last little act of rebellion.

• Finally. Wings easing as Starscream picks you up and strides past them toward the private wash racks attached to their habsuite. A boon because of Star’s status as SIC that’s especially welcome now since they won’t have to risk you being seen by the other Decepticons. Thundercracker really can’t understand why you’re being so difficult about this as you wrap your arms around yourself and sulk. Eyes almost panicked when Star grips the bottom of your covering and tries to tug it up off your body. And it clicks as he watches your very doomed struggle to not give up your covering. You’re embarrassed. Swearing nonstop as Star finally wins the brief struggle and strips your covering off.

• And they’re all staring at you as you shuffle so your back is to them as best you can and cover yourself with your hands, shoulders hunched in defeat. Honestly, your nakedness is probably as interesting to them as a hairless cat. Because you’re not a person to them, you’re a pet that talks. “All that fuss,” Starscream mutters as he cradles you to him and reaches to touch the controls for the water. And the warm, almost too hot water is wonderful. Almost worth being gaped at. Tipping your head into the spray, you startle at the feel of a servo sliding over the curve of your hip and up along the bottom of your ribs.

• “Soft all over,” Skywarp murmurs, grinning when you swat at his servo. Your little face even redder than it had been. And you’d stopped covering the apex of your thighs to smack him, giving him a glimpse of you. Ignoring Star’s frown as the SIC uses a servo to rub your wet hair and both hands lift to shove at him, a leg shifting for balance. Hears the surprised sound TC makes on Star’s other side.

• You’re outnumbered. Starscream staring down at you, his expression almost surprised as you realize what you’re doing and try to cover yourself again. Only to have Thundercracker stroke along your spine. Giving up and just sitting in Starscream’s palms with your knees drawn up against yourself, though you’re sure you just flashed all three of them trying to stop Starscream from messing with your hair. Trying your best to ignore the three of them as you just wish you this was over already as you scrub at your skin and hair, while trying to keep your bits covered.

• Under the coverings, you’re shaped curiously like a tiny, delicate protoform. And while Starscream had noticed the similarities between you and them, the differences had always snagged him. Watching your mortified attempts to wash, he flares his wings out protectively, using his wingspan to nudge his brothers back so they’ll leave you be, because that embarrassment bothers him. Ignoring it as Skywarp shoots him an annoyed look and drifts into a stall further from him. Optics narrowing as the other Seeker frees his spike and grips himself, Starscream turns more toward Thundercracker in annoyance, but not before he sees your little eyes widen in shock.

• Face hot, there’s no unseeing that. Or forgetting it. Because your giant alien robots have all the equipment and you have no idea why. But you can hear Skywarp growling softly. Not wanting to look, but unable to stop yourself from peeking over your shoulder like a voyeur as he pumps his fist. His head turning to catch you staring and just grinning at you as his hips rock. And then Starscream is flaring his wings again, firmly nudging your head away with a servo against your cheek. Seeing Thundercracker watching you before glancing at Starscream. And his jaw is clenched when you look up at him, clearly unhappy as you all get to listen to Skywarp snarling as he strokes himself.

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[tiredofthehumanlife]

Honey(s) I'm home and very sad!

Barbie dolls: Roommates! Rosekiller x gn!reader

Word: 2.6k

Summary: uh you have a rlly rlly bad day and your lovely roommates make you feel better with cuddles and ice cream

Warnings: uh Barty dresses slutty?, eating mentioned and particuly described (ice cream), undefined retaliationship you're roommates but also crushing but also affectionate but also not talking Abt it idk stop asking, I lost like three hundred followers bc I was super depressed so to those three hundred people you suck I think🫀 so actually I take that back new information has come up and turns out its a Tumblr glitch my bad, you sleep in Evan and Barty's bed for like three seconds, Evan smokes, Barty hates fiction books and reads self help and nonfiction instead, Evan's very cleanly, Barty's very not that, idk do you guys actually rlly even like me or whatsittoya, kisses very cutesie, you cry, uh extremely brief mention of fighting

Hard days were never something that you truly expected. Sure you could picture all the worst possibilities and know that something bad will happen but you still never catch the full feeling of your reaction until you're sitting in it. You don't particularly want to show your upset but at the same time, you haven't turned your lips up in hours. The whole day just went downhill from the start. Once you start to think of the specifics you feel tears well up in your eyes. You just needed to get home. That's all. 

You weren't going to cry on the way home you'd do it in the safety of your own walls. You hoped your roommates, Evan and Barty, were in their room. You couldn't face them like this, you needed to hold on to the last bit of dignity you still had with them. You could never keep a hold of yourself with them. You snorted in your laughter even though their jokes weren't that funny. You fell over your words and came away from your conversations wishing you could try again. You stared too hard and ended up getting caught. You'd share too much information in an attempt to impress them. 

All you wanted was to go home, curl up in your blankets, and cry until you felt like a raisin. You felt the weight of your day double as you slipped your key into your front door. You hooked your keys onto the key holder on the wall. You shrugged your coat off, throwing it at the coat tree. You felt your tears building up as your walls slowly slipped away. The familiar home relaxed them even then you wanted to hold strong until you got to your room. You couldn't toe your shoes off fast enough, getting so frustrated you reached down and yanked your shoe off. You flung it at the shoe rack, ignoring that it wasn't anywhere near the other one you had slipped off. 

As you left the foyer, stepping towards your bedroom, Barty and Evan’s door opened. Barty leaned against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. His sweatpants were riding low on his hips, showcasing his happy trail. His shirt was butchered and jaggedly cut along the bottom of his rib cage.

“Hey baby, have you ever tried that cake-” Barty paused when he saw the anger and tears pulling at your face. He straightened up, dropping his arms to his sides. 

“What's the matter?” Barty asked. You shook your head and waved him off. You could easily slip away now, get to your room before Evan found out. Barty could let something like this slide but not Evan. Evan must've been summoned by your thoughts because just as you thought you could get away scot-free Evan’s hand slid over Barty's shoulder. His form appeared after that, slipping next to Barty past the doorframe. He furrowed his eyebrows at you. You grumbled incoherently as you realized you weren't going to be able to get out of this one. 

“Are you okay?” Evan asked. You hated how easily Evan was able to massage away your wall with just his tone. You had been holding the tears back so well too. Just a few more minutes and you could’ve made it to your room. You wanted to just say ‘yes’ and to retreat your room. You wanted to swallow your tears and act mature… by hiding your feelings, obviously. Unfortunately what you wanted and what Evan's presence caused was something entirely different. 

Something about him just broke your walls so easily. It wasn't his tone, it wasn't his words, it wasn't his charming attitude, it was just him entirely. Evan could just lay his eyes on you and you were falling apart at his feet. You wondered if maybe Barty felt the same. 

Your throat tightened with sadness and your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head, looking away from him. Evan’s breath hitched and covered it up with a hum. He stepped around Barty and held his arms out for you. You didn't bother fighting the urge to hide in them. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek into his shirt. Evan’s arms warmed your back, it pushed you closer to tears. Evan hummed, the vibrations comforting you. 

You felt Barty's hand join at your back, rubbing up and down. You let the tears go, crying into Evan's sleep shirt. Barty’s hand continued its comforting circles. You let it all go, all the frustrations of the day. Evan and Barty didn't stall for a second. They let you choke it all out, your shoulders shaking with tears. 

A few minutes later, your tears slowed. You sucked in a breath, pulling away from Evan. Evan drew his hands away from your back, cupping your face instead. Barty didn’t move his hand, continuing to rub circles on your back. You steadied yourself with your hands on Evan’s waist. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Evan asked, raising an eyebrow at you. You nodded, feeling the urge to slink back into his arms again. Evan released your face, slipping his hand into yours. He tugged you towards his and Barty’s room. You ignored the gnawing feeling that you were intruding. Barty stayed back, the sounds of him shuffling towards the kitchen behind your head. Evan nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, dragging you after him. 

You were rarely in Evan and Barty’s room. How frequently did one really need to be in their roommates’ bedroom? Not very. You’d ventured in once or twice before when Barty asked you to get something, or when Evan overslept and you had to nudge him awake so he wasn’t late for work. Though Evan rarely overslept anyway. 

Some nights you’d wake up with a deep desire for water, wandering for the kitchen with your eyes closed. You pull down a glass, fill it, and take a sip before noticing Evan’s presence. You still have your lips on the edge of the glass, halfway through the motion of tipping it up.

Evan was frozen on the windowsill, a lit cigarette still half between his fingers. The moonlight made his eyes shine like the way you’d catch a marsupial stealing your garbage in the middle of the night. His thumb flicked, making the bright cigarette bounce and the dark ash fall outside the window. You raised an eyebrow, lowering your glass. Evan sniffed, pulling his hand to his mouth again. He sucked in a deep drag of his cigarette, the end’s color glaring in the dark room. You kept your eye on him as you chugged the rest of your glass, finishing off the water completely. Evan stuck his hand out the window again, tilting his head back as a plume of smoke floated above his head. You set your glass in the sink deciding to wash it in the morning. 

“You know if you wake up in the middle of the night with intense thirst, it means you’re dehydrated,” Evan said, his voice still quiet from his distance. You groaned, flipping him off and shuffling back to bed. You ignored his chuckle behind you, still too tired to think of a good quip. 

Evan dropped your wrist, dragging your attention back to the moment. Their room was messy, but not terribly. It was a little obvious who was the messy one. The clothing on the floor you had only seen Barty wear and the large pair of black boots thrown at the foot of the bed were definitely his too.

Evan’s shoes were precisely set next to the door. The dresser shoved in the back corner seemed like his too, with multiple books stacked on top. All fiction, Barty couldn’t stand fiction novels.

You could easily deduce which side of the bed was whose, the right, closest to the door, had a pillow on the floor, and the blanket was skewed and clumped. The left had a pillow tilted but on the mattress and the blanket was set straight. The nightstand on the right had a tented book that appeared to be a self-help book on romantic relationships and a knocked over cologne bottle, the cap missing. Barty seemed to be about three chapters in, if that. You raised an eyebrow, slowly turning to Evan. Evan pressed his lips together and shrugged. 

“Barty’s a little messy. I’ve learned to live with it.” Evan muttered, his hand flying out to set the tipped-over cologne bottle on Barty’s nightstand upright. You hummed, still glued in your spot. Evan ignored it, stepping over Barty’s boots to get to his side of the bed. He slid under the blankets, smacking the mattress next to him on Barty’s side. You joined him, picking Barty’s pillow off the floor on the way there. You tossed it onto the bed, laying down and dropping your head on it. Evan let out a huff through his nose and gently brought his hand to your face, tracing the lines of your face. You closed your eyes and let your mind and body rest now that you were finally home. 

It probably wasn’t a good thing that you associated your sense of home with your roommates. It’s an obvious connection but maybe not to this degree. Your apartment didn’t feel whole without them.

At some point, they were going to pack their bags and move, or maybe you would, either way, you’d be without your two very peculiar roommates. You’d miss their strange habits. You weren’t sure you could find another roommate who would walk around the house on all fours if he got too sleep-deprived and your other roommate who would use stares as a form of communication. You weren’t sure if you could move on from your freaks of shared living quarters friends. They made you feel free and utterly comfortable. You knew they wouldn’t judge you for any of the slightly odd things you did because they did far worse things. 

You shouldn’t feel so attached to these two and yet here you were, snuggled up in their blankets. You weren’t going to even think of the strange urge to lean forward and kiss them both that washed over you far too frequently. Evan’s hand slipped away, instead pulling your hand away from your chest to hold onto it himself. You felt sleep pulling at your mind, his soft fingertips on your skin slipping away. Your lungs filled and released like a rocking wave with ease. Your body stopped moving, joints going rigid with sleep. 

And then Barty slammed open the door, the doorknob knocking back into the wall. You jolted, your rest shattering like a glass vase. You sat up on your elbows, looking back at the door. Evan sat up straight, annoyance weighing his brow down. 

“Barty!” Evan chided, staring at the man in the doorway with disbelief. Barty turned around with three bowls cradled in his arms. A spoon was held between his teeth, his foot jutting out to find the edge of the door. He hooked the back of his heel over the edge, kicking his leg back to close the door. Barty tried to respond, the spoon in his mouth making it choppy. A few strings of guttural sounds slipped out from behind his teeth, making the general shape of a sentence. You let them stir in your head for a moment, trying to decipher them. 

Evan shook his head, not understanding a lick of what Barty said. He turned to you, to see if you caught it but you doubted you could’ve caught it if there wasn't a spoon in his mouth. You threw a hand up, giving up entirely. Barty let out a scoff, joining you two at the side of the bed. He set down one of the bowls on his nightstand, next to his book. He leaned down over his bowl, tilting his head to the side. Barty opened his mouth, letting the spoon clatter inside the bowl. You sat up, looking inside to see his favorite ice cream inside. Barty stuck the other two bowls out to you and Evan. You gently took it from him, looking between Evan and Barty. 

“I didn’t have hands, it’s hard to be quiet when you’re opening a door with no hands,” Barty said. His hand flapped, silently telling you to scoot over. You scooted into Evan’s side, leaning back against the bed frame. Barty flung himself into the mattress, making you and Evan bounce up and down for a moment. You stared at Barty in displeasure with your rather cold bowl in your hands. You pictured the moment from outside your view, Barty’s relaxed and stretched frame on the bed. You and Evan glaring while bouncing with your bowls held away from you. You would’ve laughed if your nap hadn’t been rudely interrupted. Barty sat up, pulling his bowl off his nightstand into his lap. He stuck his spoon into his ice cream, bringing the spoonful to his mouth. He looked up and paused in his eating. 

“What?” His words were muffled by the ice cream in his mouth. You sniffed, turning to look at Evan. Evan shook his head at Barty. 

“We were peacefully sleeping, Barty,” Evan said, still accepting the ice cream and pulling his spoon up to his mouth. You decided they had no problem with eating in their bed, scooping out your own bite. 

“Yeah in my bed. That I paid for, thank you for your service, Barty. We love you, Barty. You’re so sexy, Barty. Please, Barty, let us repay you for your kindness. That’s what I want to hear out of your mouths right now, not complaints.” Barty said, tipping his voice up to mock your voices. You glanced at Evan to make sure you heard right. You kept your eyes on your ice cream as you readied another mouthful. 

“I’m not saying that.” You muttered before taking a bite into your mouth. Evan hummed in agreement. 

“You must’ve forgotten to take your pills this morning because I would never say that.” Evan frowned, licking his spoon clean before taking another bite. Barty quickly swallowed his scoop before faking a gasp. 

“You don’t love me? Wow okay, I see how it is.” Barty joked, a smile playing on his lips. Evan froze, staring at the blanket to run back through Barty’s words. He dropped his spoon into his bowl. 

“Well, no. I do love you. I take back what I said.” Evan said, keeping his eyes on Barty to make sure his point was taken seriously. Barty cooed, leaning forward over your lap. He puckered up his lips and you leaned back. Evan met him in the middle, pressing a kiss to Barty’s lips. You stifled a groan at being trapped both between and under them. 

“Gross. I have feelings too, you know.” You muttered, trying to look anywhere but the kiss between your two rather attractive roommates. They pulled back from each other, returning to their original seats. You felt your shoulders relax, knowing the discomfort was finally over. You looked down at your bowl, stabbing your spoon into your ice cream again. You are startled at the feeling of their lips pressing against both your cheeks in two brief kisses. They pulled back returning to their ice cream. 

“We love you too,” Barty muttered before taking another bite of his ice cream. You hummed, swallowing down the true feelings you could bring up. Barty was the first to finish his bowl, setting it on his nightstand. He took the silence as a sign for him to tell you both about his day in extreme detail. You didn’t mind it. Barty was entertaining and it distracted you from your terrible day. You actually enjoyed laying in bed with them, eating ice cream, and watching Barty fling his arms about to explain his day. At one point he got up to act out how’d he‘d pummel Evan’s boss if he didn’t give Evan a promotion soon. 

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage. 

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly. 

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock. 

You might have hit the man on the back of the head. 

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him. 

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face. 

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.” 

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap,  hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles. 

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours,  still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.” 

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse. 

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.” 

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it. 

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag. 

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking,  you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help. 

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly. 

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic. 

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course. 

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest. 

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with. 

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would. 

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.” 

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry. 

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all? 

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?” 

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance. 

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught. 

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you. 

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though? 

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic. 

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind. 

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.” 

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.” 

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper. 

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy. 

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest. 

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention. 

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.” 

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing. 

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure. 

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin. 

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else. 

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock. 

Diamonds are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes. 

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?” 

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed. 

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob? 

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing? 

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse. 

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer? 

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.  

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate. 

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?” 

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet. 

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment. 

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer. 

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.  

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.” 

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home. 

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily. 

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along. 

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!” 

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips. 

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

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[raindragon-20]

Extended • word count: 810

@wolfstarmicrofic

The cottage was quiet when Remus stepped in. Too quiet. No low hum of the radio Sirius always kept on when he was alone. Only the sound of wind and heavy rain beating down the window panes.

Remus exhaled as he took off his coat, carefully setting his suitcase by the couch. The Iceland trip had stretched to two full weeks of research. Interesting, sure. But every second away from home, away from Sirius, had carved something hollow in him.

He glanced down. Sirius’ boots were by the shoe rack. Which meant Sirius was inside. Probably in their bedroom. 

Harry had been away at Hogwarts for his First Year, that meant for the past two weeks, Sirius had been completely alone at home. Remus had struggled with the separation too, every part of him aching to come home.

He padded upstairs, straight to their bedroom.

“My love?” he called, voice low as he opened the bedroom door. 

Sure enough, there was a Sirius-sized lump under the duvet, curled tightly near the middle of the bed. The room felt cold. 

The last two owls Remus had received were borderline indecent to open in polite company. They were rambling, explicit, and desperate. The two-way mirror calls had featured a dramatically pouty Sirius, whispering “You’re cruel for leaving me like this, Moony.”

This was how Sirius got when he was touch-starved.

Remus moved closer, slowly. He could just make out the ends of messy black curls poking out from under the covers, a sliver of pale cheek against the pillow.

He crouched at the edge of the bed, gently lifting the blanket.

“Heyyy, baby,” Remus said softly, barely above a whisper.

The blanket peeled back to reveal a bleary-eyed, pouty Sirius, face smushed into Remus’ pillow. Just as he expected, Sirius was curled up on Remus’ side of the bed, arms wrapped tight around Remus’ pillow. The thick duvet bundled around him like a cocoon. Sirius looked… adorable.

Every cell in Remus’ body ached to hold him. Merlin the way Remus just wanted to wrap him up in his arms and never let go.

“Moons…” Sirius mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Yes, love, right here” Remus replied, smiling softly, his voice just as quiet, fingers finding Sirius’ face to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his lover's ear.

“You didn’t answer the two-way,” Sirius pouted, brows furrowed like it physically hurt him.

Remus chuckled, lips twitching into a lopsided grin, brushing a hand through Sirius’ curls.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I was already nearly home.”

Sirius blinked slowly, still frowning, he hummed, then lifted the duvet slightly, one arm extended in silent invitation. “Come ‘ere, it’s cold”

Remus didn’t hesitate, not for a second. He climbed into the bed and slid right next to Sirius, his arms wrapping around him as if this was the moment he’d been aching for since the day he left. It was.

The second Remus was close enough, Sirius melted into him. Pressed his face right beneath Remus’ chest, arms winding tight around his waist like he needed to be as close as humanly possible. Like if he could, he’d crawl inside Remus’ skin, bury himself beneath Remus’ ribs and stay there.

Remus exhaled a breathless laugh, hand immediately finding Sirius’ hair, burying his fingers in it, tugging just enough for comfort. “Missed me?”

Sirius made a sound, still nuzzling into Remus’ chest, still burrowing, like even now wasn’t close enough.

“Mmhm.”

Remus shifted lower, and his shirt rode up slightly with the movement. Without missing a beat, Sirius slid his hand under it, palm warm against Remus’ skin.

“Is that why you’re in my jumper?” Remus murmured, eyebrow raised. His hands smoothing over the soft fabric. 

Sirius nodded, face still buried in his chest. “Mmhmm.”

“And wearing my boxers?” Remus smiled his hand finding the curve of Sirius’ arse. 

A very satisfied hum vibrated against Remus’ ribs.

Remus chuckled, breath soft. He dipped his face down into Sirius’ hair, pressing a soft kiss there.

“And is that…” he inhaled, mock accusing, “my shampoo?”

Sirius smiled against his chest and whispered, “It smells like you. I’ve been in full feral mode for days. You are not allowed to leave me for that long again.”

Remus laughed, warm and low, and pressed his nose into Sirius’ hair. “Noted,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to his temple. “Fully approved. I missed you like mad.”

Sirius let out a pleased little noise, arms tightening around him. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

“I think I do.” Remus kissed the top of his head again.

“I’ve been so touch starved, it’s pathetic.” Sirius continued. 

Remus looked down at him, eyes soft, thumb stroking gently behind his ear. “You’re perfect.”

Sirius looked up and met his gaze. “And you’re wearing far too many clothes.”

NSFW version